Blood and Fire
by G12G4
Summary: Sequel to The Etruscan Skull. Having worked her way into her majesty's Secret Service as a Code Breaker, M is sent on her first mission, as an agent with the National branch of the Service, to Worthing in the summer of 1884 to investigate a troubling series of murders. Noticing a unique signature on the bodies she brings in her associate in the International division, James Bond.
1. Chapter 1

I stood near the train station, leaning slightly on my umbrella, exercising no small degree of patience as I waited for the next train to arrive. It had been four years since I had last seen the man the world knew as James Bond but whom I would never, in my own mind, call by any name other than Roger Norbert. I leaned into the balls of my feet, the uneveness of the cobblestones making balance difficult in the heeled boots. My stomach fluttered as the train pulled into the station. 'Nerves.' I thought with a momentary frown. I hadn't anticipated those childish things would affect me at this moment. 'If he is not on this train I should be sorely tempted to travel to Dover and drag him in myself.' An arch expression turned the corners of my lips upward as I envisioned the scene of his capture. He should have arrived on yesterday's evening train; at the latest, the morning one. I had no desire to further delay the investigation waiting for him to arrive, yet, I was unwilling to move without him. This was a case I would require his specific expertise on - at least, if my reading proved correct. Equally, if I did not send for him, and he were to discover I had withheld the information, I should never be forgiven the lapse. The train, having delivered its human cargo at the station, now moved along down the track. From the station platform a number of men and women walked down onto the lane but none were the man I was seeking. I was about to admit defeat when my heart suddenly leaped within my chest as I saw, trailing some twenty feet behind the group, the familiar form of that tall, slender man. His dark hair was obscured by his bowler hat but the shade it cast did not wholly obscure the handsome features of Lord Norbert, lately Bond. My heart ran to embrace him as a long missed friend, but my mind was less eager to forgive his dawdling - I stood rooted in place, allowing a somewhat sarcastic smile. His visage brightened as he recognized me.

"Miss Moore!" he hailed, raising a hand.

"Lord Bond, I suppose it is," I returned as he approached.

"Mr. Bond now. I have chosen surrender the title. I am too well known amongst my peers to pass for both Bond and myself without notice; nor could I manage my own affairs as well as his estate and afford to be away so often."

"Mr. Bond, then. You have been much delayed in your arrival."

"It is of no consequence, I have never known a corpse that could not wait the night." He answered with an infuriating smile. I could now vividly recall what it was that had kept me from ever attempting correspondence with this man.

"I am sorry to have had to drag you from the warm bed of whatever companion held your attention." I struck, still maintaining my calm demeanor.

"You had better be wary Miss Moore, such an accusation smacks of bitterness. One might think you envious." Inwardly, I burned with embarrassment, but my face had long been trained to not reveal such a disturbance.

"I should think there nothing enviable in such a position; nor did Dinah as I recall." I returned.

"That was merely a result of poor timing on my part."

"Yet you have moved on to the favors of others rather than renew your affections when the timing was more proper. One might accuse you of inconstancy."

"I was given to believe the timing should always be unfavorable. And what of you? I have heard your fiance has been quite busy in Moscow. Rather unfortunate business: assassination of the Tsar. Didn't quite have the effects they had hoped. I heard he managed to escape to Denmark before the police could discover his part in the thing. But where he has landed since is anyone's guess."

"You know as well as I the circumstances surrounding the dissolution of our engagement. I am sorry he chose to sow such a wind, but I do not regret the whirlwind he shall reap."

"I was surprised to hear they took you on as a code breaker. But then, I suppose you did know far too much - better to maintain the association."

"Certainly, the Secret Service could not have recognized my own talents."

"Yes, I had heard you haven't been a complete waste of an investment. Still, to allow you into the field, I image they must be quite desperate." he smiled to show he was not entirely in earnest. "Miss Moore it is good to see you are well. It seems you have grown an inch since last I saw you." he said, circling me.

"I assure you, I have not grown an inch since I was fifteen."

"You must have been quite the stork, then." he asserted.

"The current fashion in shoes has not helped in the matter."

"Still, you do appear different."

"It has been four years; I'm not an eighteen year old anymore. Nor am I sopping wet and freezing to death." I added.

"I will admit, the lack of mortal peril has altered your features a good deal." he teased. "So what is so important in the deaths of a few trollops that the Secret Service felt it imperative to send an agent to Worthing?"

"Apparently there has lately been some trouble between a religious faction calling themselves the Salvation Army and a few local business owners."

"I've heard of the Salvation Army, in passing, but how does a minor disagreement warrant our involvement?"

"If you'll follow me." I indicated forward with my umbrella. We had walked only a few blocks when we came upon a crowd of rough looking men wearing sunflowers in their lapels. A woman in a blue uniform appeared, a silver shield glinted from about her neck, flanked by two men in similarly colored militaristic uniforms. The rabble jeered at them, pelting them with trash and eggs. We watched as one of the eggs hit its mark on the woman, leaving a large blue spot where it had landed - evidently it had been hollowed and filled with paint - more splotches of paint quickly spotted their uniforms. The trio hurried down an alleyway out of view. "Because it's not a minor disagreement anymore." Roger seemed stunned by this barbarous display,

"Who are those rapscallions?" he asked as we turned away from the crowd.

"They identify themselves as The Skeleton Army and a worse set of dregs you could never find collected in one place. Four thousand of them descended on the town two months past and they have declared their sole mission to harass the Salvation Army out of existence."

"Four _thousand_!" Roger emphasized the last word in disbelief.

"Yes, four thousand," I reaffirmed. "You can see where the situation has grown into quite a powder keg. They fear that this most recent murder could be the spark which ignites it if we do not get ahead of it."

"It seems as though such measures are only delaying the inevitable."

"I do not deny it. We are attempting to stop a spark while the armory is on fire."

"And where are the police in all of this?" he inquired.

"They have thus far opted not to declare a side."

"Seems a convenient way to avoid dirtying their uniforms."

"In the face of four thousand I cannot wholly blame them for their reticence."

"So what is your role in this game? Surely, there must have been a reason they chose to bring you in on the investigation."

"The Rev. Underhill is well acquainted with one of the Salvation Army Lieutenants, a George Smith by name."

"I see now. They intended to use the connection to get you into close proximity of the Salvationists."

"Yes, as all of the previous victims were associated with the group, to some degree, it was felt I would be able to gain a better vantage point. Though as far as Mr. Smith is aware I am in Worthing under the order of my physician who felt the sea air would be good for my constitution."

"But surely you will not be staying in the barracks?" There was a note of concern in his voice.

"No, Smith was formerly a curate in the area before he was converted to Booth's teachings. He still maintains a small house in town - I will be residing there."

"Does he have a family then?"

"He is a widower with a daughter."

"What sort of man is this Mr. Smith? I cannot say I am comfortable with the idea of you staying alone with a single man."

"I have not yet met him - circumstances forced me to spend last night in an Inn - but from Quentin and Dinah's reports he is a rather phlegmatic man of a devout religious nature. And there is little to fear as his daughter will be present and she is some years my senior." I answered as we approached the morgue.

"I will try to take some consolation in that. But you still have not told me my part in this. Why did you feel the need to call me in from my mission in Marseilles?"

"You will see momentarily." I said, knocking on the heavy metal door. It opened revealing a bespectacled, balding man.

"Ah, Miss Moore, do come in. And this is...?"

"My associate, Mr. Bond. He requires a viewing of the body."

"Yes ma'am. Sir, if you would like to follow me." the man directed us into the stone building.


	2. Chapter 2

We followed the man through the open foyer and through the small office that served to guard the entrance to the morgue. The building, constructed of stone and cement with only the vaguest attempts at decoration, left a chill in the body beyond mere note of cold temperature. I consoled myself that the place was so drear no spirit would tether themselves to it - though such thoughts were mere affectations. Roger appeared equally ill at ease as we passed through the light wooden door into the room - he stared straight ahead, dark eyes never wavering from the back of our guide's head. I shuddered as we passed a dark, heavy wooden door which possessed an unsettlingly large lock that seemed far stronger than required for its task. I was thankful that the clerk did not stop here, as he had the previous day, to retrieve the unknown lady from the room. Even though it was mostly empty it was by far the most terrifying room I had ever entered for that was where they kept the bodies of those recently passed on shelves. The room itself was entirely stone and poorly lit, the dancing of the lamp light made the corpses seem to move on their shelves. The white sheets which covered them only made the effect more ghastly for the fear of what might lie beneath. For my part I did not relish once more throwing off the white sheet from that woman's cold, prone form. There is something about a corpse that is naturally unsettling - when the final spark of life has been extinguished it loses something of its humanity and, instead, more closely resembles the clay from which the first man was originally formed. I had passed the whole of the afternoon yesterday beside this woman - there was no surprise or shock I should feel when the cloth was removed - and yet I steeled myself for what I knew I would, once more, witness. I had been warned of her appearance yesterday by the well meaning clerk. The initial shock caused my sensible mind to malfunction and instinctive revulsion possessed me; I still vividly recalled how quickly I had turned my face from hers - the clerk made to cover her again but I managed to recover myself enough to bid him stop, that I would be fine in a moment if he would leave us. "I must warn you sir, her appearance may be a bit of a shock." the clerk repeated to Roger the same words he had attempted to warn me with. Roger nodded,

"Best get on with it then." The man pulled the sheet away and Roger immediately turned on his heel away from the gruesome scene. His twitching fingers balled just below his paled lips, "You might have prepared me better." he hissed at me.

"You might have been more amenable to listening." I replied. He inhaled a deep breath, exhaled heavily, and turned back towards the corpse, trying as hard as he might to avoid looking at the sharp edged hole filled with a mashed stew comprised of brain, bone, and what could be assumed had once been identified as her face. Framing the destroyed features was a halo of reddish blond hair streaked with shining strands of silver and white.

"I see what you meant about her death being problematic." He observed as the clerk removed the remainder of the sheet, revealing the thin frame of the woman still clad in her dark blue uniform, shield shining from the neckline. I walked over to the table where upon the woman lay, the twinge of recurrent shock having resolved itself.

"Now, if you would come over here," I beckoned to my reluctant companion. "You will be able to get a better view." He approached slowly; attempting to conceal his disgust as discretion. "As I am certain you have noticed, the face has been ruined by a number of blows from both a blunt object and a sharp edge."

"Two weapons?"

"I thought so at first but I'm now quite certain the villain used a hatchet: the cuts were made first and, when that proved insufficient for his ends, he used the blunt end to obliterate the remainder. But that part of the attack was not what caused her death." I turned to the clerk, "If you would please leave us." Roger waited until the man had left to continue his query,

"You mean to say she survived such an assault?"

"No, I mean to say she had perished well before the injuries were inflicted. Near as I can tell from her wounds, she was stabbed in the back with a large knife and bled to death. You'll notice how pale her skin is," I indicated to her legs, uncovered just below the hem of the blue skirt, where the white flesh was mottled by pale bruising and intricate forms delicately incised onto the skin with a blade, "and there is no blood in the wound."

"Then why go to the trouble of inflicting such grievous injury if she were already deceased? And would not the uniform be soaked in blood?"

"Exactly! But there is not a drop of blood on the uniform despite multiple lacerations and abrasions on the body."

"So she was not wearing the uniform when she was murdered." he said grimly. "Was there any evidence of..." he trailed off but I understood his implication.

"Not that I can tell; nor anyone I would wager." I took a deep breath, not wishing to again fathom the depths of depravity the murderer had dredged, but still it must be spoken; "That area was badly mutilated with the knife. No determination could be made due to the extensive damage." Roger closed his eyes in a slow wince, sucking in a shallow breath. Releasing it he allowed his eyes to rest on the woman's midsection, which appeared as an undisturbed blue oasis in the desert of horrors that was this woman's corpse. I recalled having done the same.

"Was it done after death?"

"No, but near it, for there was very little blood." He shook his head,

"The monster could not even wait until she- her hands!" all revulsion was forgotten in that moment as he crouched down, eyes level with her hands, for a closer examination. Agitated, he demanded, "Were the hands of the three other victims similarly marked?"

"Yes." I answered. Taking hold of the hand he turned it so he could see the palm. Nodding, he set the hand down.

"All four of the women had their hands bound by a cord that had been knotted a number of times along its length-"

"With a crucifix placed between the palms." I nodded confirmation, "The binding was so tight the object left deep bruising on the flesh testifying to it's shape."

"Did the murderer destroy the faces of the other women as well?"

"No, she was the only one to be thus abused."

"Tell me about the first thee women." he requested.

"The first was a prostitute, Adele Keller, she was in her mid thirties as best they could guess, a German immigrant. She was found in an alleyway. Blond hair, blue eyes, injuries similar to this woman, same marks on the hands excepting cut marks on the wrist that were believed to have been made by a hand saw. She had recently been seen at a number of Salvation Army rallies. No children, pregnant at the time of death. The second victim was not found until after the third one so it was more difficult to determine the connection between the two. She was found in a rain barrel some time after her death - the man who discovered her thought a rat must have fallen in and died causing the smell - they were unable to identify her but a few members of the Salvation Army reported that a woman who had occasionally sought food with them and matched her physical description had not been seen for well over a week but they knew nothing more of her than that she identified herself solely as," I involuntarily gulped from the familiarity of the name in connection with another young woman of my acquaintance who but for the grace of God... I dare not think beyond it. "Sarah."

"Another blond?"

"Yes." I answered, recollecting myself to the task at hand.

"A prostitute as well?"

"The body was too far gone to hazard a guess beyond that she was of the working class."

"And the third woman?"

"Mary Trimble, in appearance she was similar to the first two. Thirty two years old, originally of Hove, she was a known prostitute with an predilection for opiates. She was discovered in a pile of garbage near one of the local taverns. She had been known to frequent Salvation Army meetings in order to acquire food. Survived by one son, now an orphan.

"And there were no saw marks on the wrists of the other two bodies?"

"No. Only the first."

He drew himself up to full height,

"Has this woman's identity been determined?"

"No. The local Salvation Army Captain, Ada Smith, could not identify her, nor did she know of any reported missing among her people. She speculated the woman may have heard of the trouble in Worthing and come to offer her assistance but was murdered before she was able to find safe haven in the barracks. If that is the situation we may never know who see was."

"So you believe the damage to the face...?"

"Was done to conceal her identity. Exactly. It is an intentional aberration from the other bodies. I believe there was an important reason why he chose to conceal this specific woman's identity. Further, I do not believe this woman to have had a similar history as the other three - if you'll notice the fingers," I picked up the hand in my own and held it for Roger to see - decorum now wholly surrendered in my eagerness to display my discovery. "You'll notice there is no roughness about them from laboring, there is not even a callous from stitching clothing. She is also in fine physical health, her flesh is plump and I see no sign of illness abut her. I believe she was not a former prostitute or laborer but a gentlewoman."

"Why are the fingertips discolored? Was this the killer's doing?" Roger asked still staring at the hand, befuddled. I blushed crimson at the mention of the blue tinted fingertips, having forgotten that particular detail;

"It was mine. A few years past I read a letter that had been published in the Journal, Nature, from a doctor in Tokyo. It suggested that a person might be identified from the specific ridges on their fingers. It was rebutted by another who claimed finger ridges change over time, but were the prints recent, I conjectured they should be able to be matched even if they were changeable. I decided, in lieu of any other identifying features, it might prove useful to make a print of them in case we were able to determine whom she might be - then we might have more definite confirmation. But they had to be collected now, before decay set in."

"That reeks of quackery; but I cannot blame you for attempting it. So the prevailing belief is the woman was murdered while traveling to assist the Salvation Army. Am I to assume the investigators are focusing on the rogues gallery we witnessed out there?"

"Yes, the police think the murders were executed by a member or members of the Skeleton Army who are targeting women associated with the Salvation Army."

"But you doubt it." He stated more than asked the question. I arched a brow at him,

"I doubt she was even a member of this Salvation Army."

"Hmmm. Why so?"

"The uniform is too neat - if it is not new than it is as good as - there are no signs of wear, no wrinkles from sitting, not even a trace of dirt from the journey. I have never known a coach or train I did not leave without a hint of dust or crease."

"What do you think, then?"

"I believe, as with her face, she was dressed in the uniform to further obfuscate her identity and cast suspicion onto the so-called Skeleton Army. But I need not convince you of that point."

"No, it would be redundant to try. You were right to call me in."

"Then it is as I suspected?" I asked, knowing full well I did not need to name the man for Roger to understand the implication of the query.

"I cannot guess as to how you gained access to the case files, but yes, this is undoubtedly the work of Charles Chapman."

"And you are certain it is not someone attempting to copy him?"

"No, the bindings on the hands, the cuts along the legs and, I am guessing, the arms as well?" I nodded in affirmation. "The patterns are far too precise to have been done by any but the deranged mind that first birthed them. And then there is the mark of the crucifix."

"So the murders are religious in nature?"

"Only in superficial form - the man has less religion than I. Blood is his only God, torture his most fervent prayer. The crucifix is for attention, that some might praise his actions as those of a moralist. But he has changed - he did not take the hands as he used to do."

"I read a number were found in the room at the boarding house were he stayed, stitched together in a pattern of prayer, but with the same marks."

"The were found in the same manner in Australia as well. The dry sun of the Outback left them well preserved."

"I thought they never found evidence he had escaped to Australia?"

"They did not. I took it upon myself to follow my father's notes which had been returned to me upon his death. Using them I was able to narrow down his location to a shack in the desert in which I found enough to know he had not ceased his violent ways for even a moment. I counted at least seventeen victims. I waited for his return but I suspect he knew I was on his trail and opted to leave without confrontation."

"So why did he not remove the hands as before?"

"Why, indeed." he raised his eyebrows as if waiting for me to come upon the answer.

"He intended to... we know that from the saw marks on the wrists of the first woman..." I hesitated, considering the thing carefully. "But he would be unable to conceal them where he is currently residing - or else the mere fact we are aware of them has caused them to lose their sacred specialness to him. But I think it to be the former because he still takes the bindings which would be far easier to hide in shared quarters. It is enough for him to have the individual bindings without the hands that were bound."

"I believe it goes beyond that Miss Moore." Four years in the service and he still could not call me 'Agent'. "By leaving the hands he is declaring his return to those who would know it. There can be no mistaking the pattern of the bindings to those familiar with the case. But to those who are not-"

"And few Worthing detectives would be familiar with a Blackpool murderer."

"Particularly one the Mayor sought to bury. That twit Cocker was more afraid for his resorts than his people." he snorted, his hand hitting the table beside the corpse with the quiet force of his frustration. "If not for my father's records there would be none of Chapman."

"Then there can only be one whom his message is for..."

"He is intending his taunt for me. Likely he means it as revenge for disturbing his hunting grounds."

"But why Worthing of all places? Were he hiding amongst the ranks of the Skeleton Army why not London where they are most numerous?"

"That I cannot conjecture to. But whatever his reason, he is here - these four women attest to it. And make no mistake, Miss Moore, he will kill again." He turned on heel and strode from the room. I hurried behind, striving to keep up with him.

"Where are you going?"

"To Wembley." I stopped for a moment, stunned at this pronouncement.

"Wembley?" I asked, once again rushing to match his pace. "What is in Wembley?"

"That is where Chapman's mother and sister moved to in order to escape their infamy."

"I was unaware he had any relations still living."

"He is only survived by his sister and she has had her name changed. According to my father: while her mother was adamant that no information about her son be shared with our agents or the investigators he suspected the sister only maintained silence at her mother's order. She was a foul woman that one, barely a Lady by breeding but you might have thought she were the Duchess of York for how she scrabbled at respectability. An hour in her company was enough to even bring my father to sympathy for Chapman. There was suspicion, at the time, that it was the sister who revealed the name of the boarding house where Chapman was residing. She is the only person alive, save for his final victim, who is able to identify Chapman."

"There are no photographs? What of the final victim?" I asked as we turned the corner so sharply I had to place my hand against the rough brick corner of a building to master my forward momentum into the motion.

"Lady Chapman immolated all but a ferrotype of Chapman as an infant. As for the final victim, she was only an orphan child of fifteen at the time, my father tracked her whereabouts to London but following his death she disappeared into its underbelly. I fear she may have passed." We approached the train station, "I'm sorry, Miss Moore but this is where I must leave you for now."

"Roger!" I cried, attempting to at least slow him.

"A ticket for Wembley, if you would?" He requested of the station agent. "And it is James so long as we are in public, though Mr. Bond if you would - no sense leading people to believe we are familiar." he made a tip of his hat as though to suggest something. My face burned with frustration or humiliation - possibly both. "I had hoped to see your situation and meet this zealot of yours, Miss Moore, but I believe that will have to wait. I will write when I have found something. Until then do take care not to put yourself into harms way. I do not need to remind you, Chapman prefers blonds." And with that Roger disappeared into the crowd. I stamped my boot onto the wooden floor in frustration - four years past and the man was as infuriating as when I had left him.


	3. Chapter 3

As I walked from the station my boot displaced a small rock, causing it to skip from stone to stone until finally coming to rest a few feet from its origin. I kicked it again, this time with intention, and watched it again bounce among the paving stones until it came in contact with an irregularity that caused it to jump askance and pass through the spoke of a cart wheel and out of the path of my impotent wrath. That man! The burning within me set my limbs to itching from its discomfiture. He might have at least remained until the morning! Yet what was my complaint in actuality? There was little more further discussion could have accomplished than what had just been done; and did I not wish for such an important connection to be secured as soon as was possible? It was not as though I was free to journey with him - I was already expected and no excuse could mitigate the rudeness of leaving my host only just after arriving. Still, I could not tolerate his abrupt departure. I had not seen nor heard from him in four years and he could not even surrender two hours? "Did you really miss him that much?" The voice of Millie that forever occupied a place in my head chided. I allowed a wry smile.

"Not miss him." I answered it. "No, that only minutely, and never acutely."

"Never acutely?" I did not like the voice's implication. Had I forgotten? The nights in my own home only weeks after our journey? How strange it had felt to wake up alone, without him watching over me as he had in those first few days I had spent at the parsonage? Banished memories now flooded my senses. Awaking with a start in the dead of night, visions of Nicholas having once more violated my dreams, to see Roger slumped in a chair in the corner, reading a novel - some romance, I am sure, as was his fancy. At the sound of my rousing he would raise his eyes from his book to me, and, seeing him keeping guard, I would find the ability to sleep once more. How many times had I woke in the early dawn hours to find him dozing in that same chair with the beams of the early morning sun cascading upon him, novel fallen to the floor at the end of his fingertips, or else resting on his stomach. Quentin would come in then, and seeing his friend dead to the world and I awake, would hold a finger upright against his lips and go over to stoke the fire before leaving the room and returning some minutes later with a cup of tea. Four days I had spent in bed and never in that time could I recall a moment without his presence but one, late in the evening, when he had gone about his toilet and I had awakened to an empty chair, novel resting lonely upon it. It was a particularly troubling nightmare, once more facing Nicholas as he backed me into the corner of the Whitechapel apartment - no matter how many times I struck it, the cigar refused to light! I felt Nicholas's warm hand slide onto my neck in almost a caress. All at once the fingers clenched tightly! I struggled for breath clawing at his hand in a desperate attempt to pry his tightening fingers from my throat. I awoke with my hands still grabbing at my neck gasping in the cool evening air. Instinctively I sought that familiar presence but the chair was abandoned. In that moment I attempted to throw off my blankets and flee but found myself too weak to properly rid myself of them, only succeeding in tangling my limbs hopelessly within. Panicked, still struggling against the covers with my defeated strength, I cried out for anyone to come to my aid and succeeded in summoning the entire house (much to my later embarrassment). Roger rushed to me and wrapped my wasted form in his arms tightly, to keep me from further exhausting my tapped out faculties from the struggle.

"I- I thought Nicholas had... had-" I had gulped.

"He's not here. He's gone." Roger had said, reassuringly.

"No." I spoke stonily, my senses now returning. "But he is still out there." Satisfied that I was no longer at risk of harming myself, Roger released me.

"He is."

"And one day he may return."

"He may, though he would be a fool to make the attempt. You have bested him twice - I doubt he would risk a third encounter."

"It was only by pure luck." I had replied, bitterly.

"I believe you sell yourself short; on both occasions you defeated him with your wits and that particular weapon is only likely to grow sharper with use." I allowed a weak smile in answer to his rare compliment and he resumed his post, picking up the novel once more and turning to the page marked.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Quentin inquired.

"Or perhaps some sandwiches?" Dinah followed.

"No, thank you." I answered, weary from such a massive exertion of effort.

"Then we'll leave you to your rest." Dinah said.

"Thank you for all your kindness." I replied.

"Think nothing of it, only get some rest." Quentin answered, shutting the door until it was only open enough to allow a sliver of light from the main room within as they followed the household from my temporary room. I made some effort to put my bed back in order, fluffing the pillow before lying my head down.

"The nightmares will lessen in time." Roger said from behind the pages of his novel.

"When will they stop?"

"Never. Not completely. But in time you will have less of them."

"I wish they would be done with! I should rather never see his face again: waking or sleeping!"

"As do I, but the mind is labyrinth that doubles back on itself when we are least prepared."

"You are similarly afflicted, then?" I asked.

"Yes." he admitted. "Most cases can be readily forgotten, but there are those that refuse to be done away with - especially those that remain open, like Nicholas."

"Or your father." I added, recalling our conversation under the bridge. Roger nodded.

"You had best get back to sleep. I'll be here when you wake."

"Do you promise?" I felt like a child attempting to elicit such a vow from him. He only smiled,

"I promise."

Two years later I followed the path we had taken to that bridge. I shivered, instinctively wrapping my arms around myself, recalling how cold I had been. My fingers crept up my shoulders as another sensation flushed through my body - that memory that still sometimes came to me after a chill rainy night succumbed to an unnaturally bright, grey morning - of waking up to find his arms still wrapped around me, keeping me warm. And yet, for all he had done, I had never once written him. Though what had there been to write? Quentin was a far better author of our adventures than I - and certainly we had had our share of those! Dinah and I both, to be sure. I had to suppress a chuckle recalling the day Quentin had accidentally set of a miniature explosive he had inserted into a fountain pen. It had been, perhaps, a bit too powerful; for the sound of it spooked the horses as we mounted for a mid-afternoon ride. We had spent the better part of the evening searching the poor creatures out. I suppose it was his own business, or perhaps he was still stung by Dinah's rejection of his advances, which kept him from returning. Though every now and again Quentin would tell me "Oh, Roger has lately been in Chosen or Russia." There had been an entertaining letter inwhich he had come upon a tribe of headhunters while in the Philippines who would have made short work of the Englishman had he not come upon a contingent of Spanish troops and stolen a horse in order to make his escape. He was not optimistic regarding the survival of those who had unwillingly donated the steed. But I had never once written, nor had he ever written me or even made inquiry as to my well being.

But as time did to nightmares, so to did it do to memories. Allowing their shine to slowly tarnish with neglect until their value is forgotten in the recesses of the mind. Seeing him again it seemed all those long forgotten memories had sprung to life. The bandaged hand, the reunion at the dinner party, the confrontation in the Library, the journey down the river to the Thames and that horrible crossing. And then our goodbyes - they had seemed so inconsequential at the time, as though I would see him in a month but if not for this case would they have been the last words I spoke to him? Had I missed him? I suppose I had, even acutely at points. And to have my friend leave just as suddenly as he had come... And there was the truth of my dashed hopes - hopes I had not even known I had until they lay shattered - a word my mind chose without hesitation to describe the man. My friend. Though I had no claim to the title from him I could not picture him as anything else - and perhaps it was that aspect of him that caused my frustration at his abrupt departure, that I could not indulge those amicable feelings. He was right to go, and now that I had put a cause to my disappointment I was more able to accept it and put it from my mind. The situation had been confirmed: the Blackpool murderer had killed four women with no indication his blood lust had been satisfied. And like Blackpool had been, he could not have found a better place to practice his trade than Worthing; so eager to steal tourists from Brighton at any cost - and what a small price to pay to lose a few undesirables; and, with so many descending upon the city by the day, what hope did we have of finding the man without the aid of his sister?

* * *

I picked my way through the cobblestone streets and alleyways that separated the train station from the address Dinah had sent me pondering the situation. Three women of similar appearance, station, and age all murdered only weeks apart. Then a fourth woman, matching the first three only in physical appearance - a lady at least a decade senior the other three. His original victims had barely aspired to their twentieth year while these new women were in their thirties or older. Perhaps the man was murdering women similarly aged to himself - but of this I could not be certain. He had been in his twenties when he had blighted Blackpool - this I knew - he would be well near forty by now. I now wished more than ever Roger had not been so quick to leave for he might know the ages of the Australian victims. The woman in the morgue still played on my mind like an itch that could not be scratched. She was an aberration - the one of the set that did not belong. Why had he so violently destroyed her face? There seemed less discretion in the act than pure wrath. She was an older woman with only passing physical similarity to the others and yet she had been subject to the worst of his barbarism. Perhaps it was something in her face which had attracted him beyond her hair color - something he felt the need to blight regardless of her other ill-fitting qualities.

* * *

I approached a corner, checking the address once more, I turned down a road lined with squat red brick houses searching each door for the number that would match what was written upon the paper. And, then, just as suddenly as I looked up, I found it. The house was respectable than what I expected a Salvation Army Lieutenant to own - I suppose I had imagined some form of boarded shack as more fitting - yet hardly what one might call fine by any stretch. It was a two-story red brick affair with large windows, now wide open in an attempt to mitigate the midday heat, whose gleaming white frames told of the pride its curator took in its care. The same stony walls as lined the other houses on the street stood before his own - cold firmaments impelling me that I might do well to go about my way and think no more of the house or its owner. Yet, just beyond, winding its way from the corner of the yard and up the brick wall until it framed the square window frame, was a vine of pink roses plump in their full bloom. I recalled the curtains hung so carefully in the window of Silas Marner's hovel - the transformative influence of a daughter on the heart of a man. Shoring up my courage with the blush of the roses, I strode to the door and let the knocker fall twice upon its brass counterpart. The door flung open only a moment later revealing a massive, broadshouldered man in a blue uniform that seemed to be fighting a losing battle with its ability to contain his bulk. His physique was like that of a pugilist; bringing to my mind the famed mountain of a man that was Sam Hurst of Lord Danver's tales of the greats of that terrible sport. He looked down at me, his red-whiskered face wreathed with a jolly smile that caused his high, round cheeks to near overtake the twinkling of his eyes. "Mr. Smith?" I inquired, unsteadily. This man was not at all what I had expected of the man from the less than flattering descriptions provided me by those in his aquaintance. Perhaps his involvement with the Salvation Army had so altered him as to be almost unlike his prior self. He turned, calling back into the house in mildly accented tones I could not place for their strangeness, "George! I believe it's your ward."

"Thank you, William. Please, show her in, if you will." So this was not the man after all. The mountain in human form waved his arm as if to conduct me inside. "Miss Moore, I am sorry, it seems you have picked a poor time to visit." said the clean shaven man removing his spectacles (worn for the purpose of reading, I guessed), so dwarfed by his companion that he appeared quite short as he stood straightening a small stack of papers before tucking them into a shelf of the scarred roll top desk. His skin was pale, with an almost translucent, waxy quality about it that was only made more ghostly by the pitch black of his hair. He appeared no older than his mid-forties and, though the lines on his face indicated he was often of a somber demeanor, was certainly striking in feature. He turned his slightly spare frame to face me, "This is my assistant, Cadet William Kitt, lately of the Isle of Man." A Manx man - no small wonder that I should not have been able to determine his accent! Being the only sample I had I could not help but wonder if they were all quite this large or if, perhaps, even in his own land he was quite the spectacle. "And I am Lieutenant George Smith." he said taking my hand and pressing it lightly, allowing a slight bow. He raised his piercing blue eyes level to mine and for a moment I felt my entire soul laid bare before him, "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance." I could now more readily determine his height to be almost an inch shorter than I - though, were we both of equal footing - that is to say, barefoot - I would guess we would be the same height.

"Should be Captain." Mr. Kitt muttered.

"I believe one Captain Smith is quite enough for our district." the smaller man coolly rebutted.

"I daresay, it would create some confusion." I interjected, sensing this to be an uncomfortable topic for my host. "Is Captain Smith a relation of yours?"

"If she is, it is quite far down the tree from our branches. But I would think it an honor if there were some common ancestry. Did you arrive by the early train?"

"Yes," I lied. "I am sorry for tarrying so in my arrival but I wished to have a look at the shops on Montague street."

"Did you see anything you fancied, Missy?" Mr. Kitt spoke as warmly as if he had been acquainted with me my entire life. The effect should have been one of pleasantness, but something in the presumption of it, at least I assumed that was the reason, left me feeling quite cold toward him. "I suspect, perhaps, the roller skating rink?"

"That is quite the thing, isn't it? I have never been roller skating before, only ice skating."

"I wouldn't expect so." Lt. Smith said, "It is rather a new fashion around here. Quentin was rather fond of it as I recall." I could easily envision that eager look Quentin got when confronted with a new mechanism. In my mind I saw him examining the little quad wheeled device, drawn so close to his eyes his nose interfered - as was his custom.

"Well, perhaps we might treat you." the Manx man suggested.

"Oh no, no!" I retreated, horrified. I was ungainly enough as an ice skater, the idea of adding wheels and wood to the equation seemed extraordinarily unwise. "I'm afraid I have no talent for it."

"All that's wonted is a bit of practice." the large man persisted.

"Even then, my father is against the practice. He feels it beneath our standing. I am sorry, I don't mean to be rude but I cannot disobey him." this final excuse effectively silenced Mr. Kitt.

"Now then, Miss Moore," Lt. Smith spoke up in his slightly nasal baritone (a preacher's voice if ever there were). "Please allow me to show you where you will be staying." He gestured the narrow stairwell to the second floor. "This is the washroom." he waved, indicating a small room just beneath the stair that held only the very basics, a small tub occupied the majority of the space with a toilet just beside, almost touching. A small diamond shaped window allowed light from the outside into the little room. The sink and mirror were situated just outside the door. I followed the man as we mounted the stairs, Mr. Kitt just behind, his shoulders brushing against both sides of the narrow stairwell. "This is my room." he indicated a room scarcely bigger than my own dressing room at home. "This is my daughter, Bertha's, room where you will be staying." he said, gesturing to the room immediately neighboring his. The room was small, though not as small as her father's, and vaguely yellow in shade. Most of it was occupied by a small wooden dresser decorated with a trio of daguerreotypes arranged in the form of a triptych, opposite that a bed that seemed scarce large enough for a single person was situated such that the sun from the window found its way onto the covers.

"Are you certain she won't be put out?"

"No, she has no objection to your use of the room while she is away." A thrill of alarm shot through me at his words, I sought immediate clarification,

"Away? You mean she is not here?"

"No. She is in London assisting her Aunt and Uncle with the battle there. She was not eager to leave with so much trouble about but I insisted she be present for the founding of the London Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children as she has championed the cause so tirelessly. Though I will not pretend the recent events did not effect my decision."

"Yes, I noticed there seemed to be a bit of a commotion." I feigned ignorance of the situation as Rev. Smith led the way back down the stairs.

"It's those blasted Skeletons!" Mr. Kitt ejaculated.

"Mr. Kitt, I will ask that you monitor your language while you are in my house, particularly in the presence of a lady." the Reverend scolded his companion. "I need not remind you that it is even in our language that we are called to be transformed; that the words we say, and those we do not say, may bear witness to our Lord."

"I misspoke, I apologize if I offended you Miss Moore." the cowed giant supplied.

"No harm was done." I responded, somewhat bewildered by the affect the smaller man had achieved on Mr. Kitt.

"Anyhow, what Mr. Kitt was alluding to is a group of men who have dubbed themselves The Skeleton Army. At first they only caused some disruption to our marches and meetings - it was a nuisance but, then, we had the consolation that they were at least hearing the message. The Monday following Easter was the first time they used physical force against us and, I am sorry to say, we have known little peace since. I do not wish to worry you, as I know you are here for your health, but I would ask that you please not go out without myself or another member of the Army with you."

"I would not dream of going anywhere without a chaperon." I replied in a tone of mild offense.

"I am sorry if I've offended you. I forget ladies of higher social standing are more accustomed to accompaniment than our women soldiers."

"You would mean to tell me that you would allow your daughter to walk about town unsupervised?"

"Aye, I would. I'd have heaven to pay were I to try to stop her." he almost laughed but checked himself. "With these ruffians about, though, I would be less inclined to permit it. Most of our female members do not go about town unless they are accompanied now, especially with recent events. But there is no need for you to trouble yourself with that." I assumed he meant the murders. "I have received a letter from Quentin stating his intent to arrive in town Sunday evening, I believe he plans to remain the week if matters at home allow. Until then, either Mr. Kitt or myself will have to suffice as your companion. Regretfully, between our duties and all the goings on, I fear you may spend much of your time alone in the house until the matter is properly settled."

"There is no need to apologize on account of that. I am quite fond of solitude and will gladly use the opportunity to attend to some reading I have lately neglected." I could not have wanted for a better arrangement - by his own word he had admitted that I would spend much of my time unsupervised and assumed at the house, alone - at least, until Sunday. I was gratified to hear that Quentin intended to visit as per our previous discussion - there had been some doubt as to whether he could get away from his considerable duties at the parish - with his assistance we might do a fair deal better in finding our killer. "I do sympathize with your plight; it seems unthinkable that a church should gain such infamy for so little offense."

"The offense taken is not of man, it is of the great tempter from whom we daily rescue his finest prizes. He causes them to burn against us in revenge, but we will not be conquered." he declared, slamming his fist down on the desk. I raised my eyebrows in surprise at this sudden outburst of passion from the controlled man. "I am sorry. It has been a rather trying time for those of us on the front lines. It seems the earthly authorities have seen fit to ignore our plight entirely. It is my hope that next Wednesday, at the public meeting in Montague Hall, we may be able to convince the magistrates to, if not aide our processions, at the very least order the Police to intervene on our behalf when we are assaulted. At the moment it seems the whole of the world is against us but for God. But I suppose you must want to settle in from your journey. Do make yourself at home. We'll be having an early supper today as Mr. Kitt and I are required at the Barracks this evening and I cannot say when we shall be getting home." I nodded, then a thought occurred to me,

"If I might be so bold to ask, may I accompany you? I would very much like you see the Barracks."

"I'm not sure it would be a safe place for a lady such as yourself." Rev. Smith did little to conceal the concern in his voice. "I fear your family would not approve of my taking you there."

"It's only an old warehouse anyhow." Mr. Kitt interjected.

"Still, I should like to see it. If for no other reason so that I might know where it is if ever there is an emergency and I need to find you." The reverend looked as though he were about to object but thought better of it,

"I suppose it may prove necessary." he sighed. "But you must stay close with us. There'll be no end of trouble if you are injured."

* * *

Following a rather spare supper, Rev. Smith led the way to the familiar alleyway on Prospect I had shown to Roger only hours earlier. Much of the crowd had dispersed, no doubt more interested in the filling of their own stomachs rather than the air with their crude songs (for crude they were by any definition of the word). A few stragglers, those who could fill their empty stomachs with little more than bile, still hung about spewing insults at those who approached the alleyway. I had not had much opportunity to properly look on it before but now I could clearly see the blackened walls, accompanied by the unmistakable stench, I reached to press my fingers against it to be certain. Mr. Kitt caught my hand in his massive mitt before I was able to touch the darkness, "Be careful Missy, that's tar. You touch it, it'll stick to you all day. The Skeletons did it a month ago; whenever we clean it off they just repaint it." Rev. Smith turned as I shook my hand free of Mr. Kitt,

"Miss Smith, do be careful not to touch anything, and watch your step for the broken glass." looking about the ground I saw numerous shards of glass lying about most from bottles that had either been thrown as missiles at army members or else dropped my those leaving the door leading to a pub that also occupied the alley. The entrance to the warehouse certainly bore the scars of its prolonged stand against the opposing army's siege. Stones had left the door dented and scratched, windowpanes were smashed. Swatches of paint and egg matter splattered the walls and ground. The Salvation Army had declared war, and it was with war they had been met. I saw movement through one of the broken panes, the door to the warehouse opened,

"Lt. Smith, Cadet Kitt; praise God you were able to come safely!" a blue bonneted woman hurried our party inside. "And who is this young lady?" she asked, he pleasant smile belied the weary strain that lurked just behind her eyes. The months of harassment had taken their toll. Peering beyond my company I saw a number of similarly dressed women and men garbed in red shirt-sleeves, their blue jackets lying nearby, haunting the benches - far more benches than were required for their number, their despondency seemed to indicate this had not always been the case - singularly or in pairs. Few words passed between any of them, it seemed they were merely waiting as one who hears their own death knell and knows the time is near nigh.

"This is Miss Philomena Moore, she is a friend of Rev. Underhill. She intends to board at my residence for the season as her doctor has recommended the sea air would be beneficial for her health. Miss Moore, this is Mrs. Farnsworth"

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Miss Moore." the woman said with a slight curtsy.

"The pleasure is mine Mrs. Farnsworth." I returned with the same gesture.

"Has Capt. Smith returned yet?"

"No, she is still at the hospital, she sent me to convey her regrets that she will be late." Rev. Smith surveyed the pitiful crowd with a shaking head.

"What has happened to us?" he said, more to himself, I felt, then to any of our number. "This used to be a place of cheer, of excitement." his voice began to rise louder as he spoke. "Here we once met with the anticipation of plucking souls from the very hand of the evil one and bringing them to glory! Now look at us. An army in retreat. Are we already defeated?" he announced, his fist hitting the table like a gavel. The remnant followed him with despondent eyes. "Do we sit here now and contemplate our surrender? No! I tell you we are not yet beaten!" He said mounting the bench nearest us.

"You are all familiar with the story of the long boat rescue off the coast of Whitby. Did those men sail the life boat to Robin Hood Bay in the warm sunshine of calm seas? Did they, upon seeing the wind and waves, declare the mission impossible for there was no way they could sail the lifeboat to the rescue in such conditions. No! They carried it through the storm! When all seemed against them they did not surrender to the gale that blew around them; instead they stood and said we will save those stranded souls whatever the hardship! The volunteers came and battled the ice and freezing snow pulling the heavy burden over arduous terrain to bring the heavy boat to the Bay. Likewise, did God promise us the weather would be fair for our rescue mission? No! He promised us the storm! That in our following of Him we would face trials and persecution from those who seek to serve the world. But we must not allow our faith to be tossed about by the winds! To see the waves and remove our eyes from He who can allow us to walk safely on the boiling seas. For if we lose sight of our goal in our fear of the tempest, then we, like Peter, shall sink into the deep and thus will be unable to rescue those perishing - for a drowning man can only bring another who is languishing down faster. We must stand! We must stand in the storm of tribulation! And when the men drowning on the ocean see that we will persevere, that we will not be shaken from their rescue, they may again dare to hope - to believe there may be deliverance from damnation! But, my fellow soldiers, before we can save those poor souls we must fight through the storm! We must stand confident in our Lord whose call we have answered to serve as soldiers in His army. Not summer soldiers who fight only when conditions are favorable and the war merely a short season, no! We are to fight our battle for the souls of men regardless of conditions: whether they be storm or sun, and when we have victory we shall not rest, satisfied that the battle is won, but we shall find the next battle and we shall win that as well, for there is victory in the Lord! But victory can only be achieved through those who, like David, when faced with Goliath, stood firm and fought - and won! This! This, now is the chance to stand as David did before the foe! Not afraid but confident! Standing tall though the foe surround us! Let us have Davids! Let us have Elijahs who stood alone before the prophets of Ba'al! Let us be as the men of Gideon, ever watchful, unafraid to stand against an enemy hundreds of times our size! The Skeleton Army shall not defeat us no matter how their numbers may swell, not so long as even one man or woman among us stands before them proclaiming the Salvation of our God! And today I say I will stand! Even if I stand as one before thousands I will stand and proclaim that Jesus Christ has died so that all men may be saved from their wretchedness once and for all! Who will stand with me?" a moment of silence followed his call, then a woman from the back of the room stood with such force as to cause her bench to be loudly knocked aside,  
"I will!" she cried.

"Aye! I will!" a bearded man added, standing up.  
One by one I saw those who had only moments ago been on the verge of surrender stand with a choral cry of affirmation. Rev. Smith, his intense blue eyes ablaze with fervor, began the unfamiliar hymn, I guessed to be unique to their Army, to which the others joined:

"Jehovah is our strength,  
And he shall be our song;  
We shall o'ercome at length  
Although our foes be strong.  
In vain does Satan then oppose,  
For God is stronger than his foes.

The Lord our refuge is  
And ever will remain;  
Since he has made us his  
He will our cause maintain.  
In vain our enemies oppose,  
For God is stronger than his foes."

I felt a stirring in my chest as I watched him, I could feel my heart pounding rapidly. Air! I could not breathe! I wanted to run yet was frozen in my place watching the zealot's eyes flash with the internal fire I had known once before. The passion I had once so admired in another man now held me paralyzed in terror. Nicholas. Who was this Lt. George Smith?


	4. Chapter 4

"You're awful quiet, Miss Moore. Is something the matter?"

"No, nothing, I'm merely tired from my journey." I replied to the poke-bonneted old woman who walked beside me.

"Quite a speech the Reverend gave today; I wish I could have stayed till the end, but these old bones won't work for as long as they used to, I'm afraid."

"Yes, it was... stirring." I searched out the word.

"Always said that young man was a special conduit of the Holy Spirit - when he preached from the pulpit it was as though God, Himself, were speaking directly to you."

"How long have you known Lt. Smith?"

"Long enough to know him as Rev. Smith." she replied with a twinkle in her eye. "Though that must have been, my word! Not less than 19 years ago. And in all that time you know I still remember his very first Sunday at our church. The Bishop sent him after our old vicar had up and died - right in the middle of the Easter season if you can believe that! He was from some town off the eastern coast is all I recall - I couldn't tell you which one for the life of me - and we were his first real congregation. I remember him lookin' down on us all, his pretty little daughter and wife sitting in the very first pew, so nervous you'd a thought he'd drop over if a stiff wind blew. But, you know, then he turned a page in the Bible and set to preaching the most beautiful sermon I'd ever heard in my entire life up until that point. My husband, Donald, surely you recall he sat next to me at the meeting?" I could not say I did, but nodded in affirmation regardless, "Well, he said the same thing - that is why when he left and joined the Salvation Army we followed him as did a number of others in the congregation. I used to knit stockings for his wife's charity baskets - she was a quiet women, sweet as they come, the daughter of one of those Irish railway workers. Not one who would turn many an Englishman's head, mind you, not with that upbringing, but he never seemed to give it a thought. And she was a good wife to him, a good mother so long as I knew her - which was far too short a time. It was a sad day when she passed, sudden-like, one day mid-Spring. I always felt sorry for that poor little girl, grow'n up without a mother. I suppose he did the best he could." Her tone gave me pause, I knew it well for the many times I had heard it used in reference to myself when the speakers thought I was not within earshot - the sorry clucking of the gossip who holds a secret one need only ask to have it be revealed. Perhaps it was not fear but shame which had caused Lt. Smith to send his daughter away. He would have had little to worry about for, though I did not know of her reputation, mine was certainly at least as infamous.

"Is there something amiss with his daughter?" I asked, expecting the reply of some form of madness.

"No." They always did begin with 'No.', did they not? And then it was always followed by the very things which would contradict it; as though the 'no' were a mere vestige of propriety. "She is very kind and generous, but..." I raised my eyebrows to indicate the small interest needed to spur her continuation. "Do not think me to be speaking ill against Gen. Booth's teachings; I suppose I am just not accustomed to seeing women in positions of leadership in the church is all. I know God calls all to be a part of his church but it seems so unladylike to see a woman leading the church or preaching to the masses, especially when we have men who are qualified to do so. Don't think I mean any disrespect to Capt. Smith, but when we first declared war both our leaders were men. And the same is true of Shoreham by Sea. It's not that I don't think women can be lead just that..."

"They shouldn't." I said, finishing her thought; a gesture she took as a sign she were speaking to one of a like mind, false as that assumption was I had no desire to correct her.

"Precisely!" exclaimed the doddering old woman, her milky blue bulbs sparkling with excitement at this believed kinship. "It is against God's intention for the sex. We were always meant to help the men, not lead them! I know they talk about Miriam but even she was subservient to Moses. I just don't think it is right for women to be leading our church. I love Bertha like a granddaughter, I worry for her. If she had known a mother's proper upbringing she would know her place; what man would ever marry a woman who makes such a display of herself? And, of course, her father allows it. I daresay he encourages her and that has only made her bolder. She will die an old maid, mark my words." I nodded. "I have tried to warn him, offered to take care of the girl and raise her up to be a proper young lady, but he won't hear of it, and now, I fear, it is too late."

"She is a member of the Salvation Army, then?"

"Yes, she's already a Captain - she outranks her father, and more's the pity of it."  
"Why isn't he a Captain as well?"

"I couldn't say, I know he was offered the title but he declined it. I wish I knew why. He should be our leader. Perhaps we would not be in our current trouble if he were." We passed the large church and turned down Lt. Smith's street. "I fear if this continues, all our years of hard work to start the Corps here will be for naught." I could now see the little house in the distance, I strained my neck forward as if that would deliver me there faster for, with the topic of Lt. Smith's daughter spent, I knew it would not be long before-

"Now my dear, tell me, do you have a gentleman?" and there it was. And the house so close but not close enough.

"No, Mrs. Shaw, I'm afraid I do not." The old lady searched me over, incredulous, as though looking for a sign of this being mere modesty,

"A fine young Lady such as yourself with no prospects? I find that hard to believe."

"Your ability to believe it does not in any way alter the matter." was my terse reply.

"Well, you must come over for supper one of these days and meet my grandson, Russell." Russell? "He's a such a fine young man, works at a shop on Montague-"

"Thank you for your invitation, I will consider it. You have been lovely company but I'm afraid I must be going. Thank you for walking with me." I interrupted, relieved to finally be in front of the house.

"Oh you're welcome, dear." I thought I heard as I made for the door. Shutting it behind, I alighted the stairs taking them two at a time and finally dove into the small bed that belonged to the young Miss Smith, burying my head in the pillow. A shop boy? The presumption of some people! Father would cast me out and burn my belongings on a pyre were I to even suggest such a thing! I turned over, grinning to the ceiling - perhaps I should call on them for dinner some time. Russell! The very name would cause Father to boil in fury. No question his parents were Whigs! But that was neither here nor there at the moment, and I lacked the cruelty to entertain it further beyond the mere knowledge that it would enrage my father and scandalize my mother.

Still, despite the momentary levity of the thought, I could not shake the overwhelming malaise the Lieutenant's speech had left in the pit of my stomach. Was this Nicholas's final legacy? That I might fear all those men of great passion? This was a man well spoken of by my friends - above reproach. But then, what man is above reproach? He had been 19 years in Worthing. That would mean he relocated in 1865. The old woman had said he was from the eastern coast but she did not say where, precisely... My mind began to form the connections even before I had intentionally considered them. The first of the Blackpool murders was in June of 1864 - almost twenty years to the day from Miss Keller's slaying. That would place Lt. Smith in the region at the time. It seemed quite a coincidence that he would also be in Worthing when a slew of similar murder began. But, then, many people are from that region who have never been within twenty-five miles of Blackpool, I argued to myself. And there was no doubt regarding what had been found in Chapman's apartment all those years past. Roger swore he had borne witness to the same ghoulish display in Australia. Certainly, these murders were the work of that same fiend! Yet no matter how I attempted to obviate my suspicion of Lt. Smith, I could not stop the itch nagging at my mind.

"This is insanity!" I cried to the bare walls. "You know it to be impossible, you have allowed yourself to become too eager to suspect evil where there is no cause for such thoughts." I rolled off the bed and set to the little writing desk which occupied the far corner of the room. If I could not do away with the thought, I would distract myself from it with my own bastion of sanity amidst the madness of the world. I dipped the pen into the inkwell.

 _Dearest Millie,_ I scratched onto the parchment.

 _I do hope this letter finds you well. It has only been a week since last I saw you but it feels quite a bit longer - perhaps this feeling exasperated by the instability of my return date. The doctor was unclear as to when, precisely, I should return - I cannot believe the sea air to be any better for me then the leafy summer breezes of N-shire. It is my suspicion I was sent away as Father and Mother wished to be rid of me and once again have dared to hope I might be more apt to ensnare a husband in a town where I was less well known (why they persist in such foolishness is beyond my understanding - they may as well surrender their hopes and allow Elizabeth to come out) or, at the very least, be less of an influence on my siblings for fear my madness may be contagious. It is to their great misfortune they have sent me to Worthing and not Brighton. Certainly, there are fewer men and women of society that I might besmirch the family name in front of, but I daresay there are fewer men of any note here whatsoever. It seems an unruly element has increased its numbers in the town in protest of the Salvation Army (you remember, that church started by that Rev. Booth from two towns over) which is causing most respectable people to avoid holidays in that town. Certainly, had I not already been exiled here against my will, I would not wish to remain surrounded by such ruffians the like of which I have heretofore never beheld._

 _I am currently residing with a former Reverend, one George Smith by name, a long time associate of Rev. Underhill. I cannot say I particularly like the man - he is far too serious and possesses an inordinate amount of religious fervor. He is one of those infamous Salvationists as well; a fact which, if my parents had known, would certainly have caused them to ban my staying. He is a widower with a daughter two years my senior, but she is in London staying with relatives. Do not even think it, Millie! There will certainly be none of that talk here! Were you to meet him you would understand. The house is quite nice, a pleasant departure from those large hotels and questionable public houses with its solitude. I shall certainly use the peace to my advantage. The town is a pleasant one aside from the rougher element. There are a number of shops on Montague St. I believe you would find of interest and I am certain you would enjoy the roller skating rink I have already heard so much about from the locals, who so far have been a friendly, if somewhat colorful, lot. I have already been invited to dine with one of the local families. I am glad to note Quentin Underhill has planned to call on Sunday and intends to remain a few days - though he will be staying elsewhere. I am grateful for the visit as I know he can little afford to take time for a holiday with his obligations at the parish. He is the curate in all but name though his father will still not surrender the title. I fear Quentin may have been correct when he said his father would be ten years in his grave before he bestowed it on his bachelor son. It is hard to believe he has not come to call since he stayed with you and Edgar for Christmas! I wish Dinah were able to join us as well but her father is wary to allow it given the newspaper reports of the current situation; but she is optimistic that the trouble will, hopefully, have calmed by August and then she will make her sojourn to the sea. I do look forward to seeing our dear friend again. There is much I wish to discuss with him for no one else is quite sufficient. I know what you will say as you have never ceased repeating that particular chorus from the day he and I met, but I am certain he does not wish to wed so you may as well reserve your ink for other sentiments. I will convey to him your warmest regards._

 _I hope this letter finds you well. I am glad the rain has stopped but I fear we are not yet done with it. Still, I hope you are able to visit the park with Freddy (for I know how you like to take him along) before it comes. I know Edgar is due back from Scotland this week, do give him my love, as well as a hug and kiss for Freddy._

 _All my love,_

 _M_

Signing off with a flourish I looked up from my work to the window - was it already dark? And still Lt. Smith had not returned. Likely they were preparing what they would say before the magistrates on Wednesday. It mattered little to me, for I had my own preparations to attend to. If I were to trust Roger (as I did), then I must not tarry in my investigation of those who identified themselves as the sworn opponents of the Salvationists, the Skeleton Army, amongst whom our killer might easily be hiding. Opening my trunk I rifled through the clothing until I found just the thing I had been looking for. It was a pale, misshapen dress of calico, hardly anything to catch the eye except in its plainness. I quickly located the thin shawl which accompanied it. Digging to the bottom of the trunk I was able to extricate hideously brown hobnail boots, mob hat stuffed within, I would need to complete the disguise. Collecting the items I carefully removed the bottom dresser drawer, put it aside, and neatly arranged my items along the back so as to occupy the smallest space possible, and then replaced the drawer. It protruded ever so slightly from the rest despite my efforts. It was not matter, I would conceal it in plain sight. I filled the bottom drawer with clothes as well as the other two, allowing all the drawers to stick out just enough so that it appeared slovenly habit rather than oddity. Sunday afternoon, before Quentin arrived, would be the best time, I reasoned. Lt. Smith would be marching with his troops and I was willing to wager the men of the Skeleton Army would be only too glad to meet them in battle.


	5. Chapter 5

"Good morning Miss Moore!" came the booming voice from the stairwell. "The good Lord please deliver me from Mr. Kitt." I silently prayed. "You don't want to miss morning services!" Oh but I do, Mr. Kitt, I very much do; for morning services have the great misfortune of occurring in the morning, which is a time of day I prefer not to acknowledge if I am granted any choice in the matter. I heard heavy boots upon the bottom stairs but they were quickly arrested by the sound a of a scuffle,

"Don't go up there." I heard Lt. Smith's voice warn.

"I'm only going to make certain she's awake." came the injured reply.

"I'm awake!" I cried, sitting bolt upright in the center of the bed at the threat of being imposed upon by that irritating man. "I'm awake!"

"There, now. She does not require further assistance." Lt. Smith said. The thud of slow, dejected footfalls descending the stairs gave me to know I would not be interrupted. But neither would I be getting any further sleep. I yawned, stretching my long arms as far as they might reach, then lowering them to rest beside me. I glanced at the clock - it was not yet seven. Best be about my toilet, only ten hours until Quentin arrived and I had much to do today. Another yawn delayed me as I attempted to leave my bed. I fell backwards onto the pillow. Just five more minutes would do no harm.

"Miss Moore, I am making eggs and soldiers for breakfast, if you would care for some." Lt. Smith called. Must everything that man did be military? Why not eggs and bacon or eggs and fried tomatoes? My stomach decided to cast its vote in the matter, rather loudly.

"Yes, if you please." I called, pushing aside the bed covers. In minutes I managed to arrange myself into a somewhat respectable looking young lady. It was a strange thing to be without Sarah, the results being significantly more expedient if somewhat more lonesome in process. I had been led to believe Lt. Smith employed a maid, at the time of my initial inquiry into visiting I am certain he believed it as well, but it seemed her husband objected to her continuing to work for a man he so strenuously opposed on the streets that he had forced his wife to resign her position and Lt. Smith had yet to find one willing to replace her. I could, of course, send for my maid; but then I would spend much of my time ducking her attentions - being unsupervised was infinitely easier. I descended the stairs in my most ladylike fashion; Mr. Kitt stared (which I found mildly bothersome as I was certainly in no way a temptation for the eye) but Lt. Smith scarcely took notice, only hazarding a brief glance while setting the plates on the table.

"Good morning, Miss Moore. I trust you slept well." Lt. Smith said, taking his seat. Mr. Kitt already had a seat pulled out for me, grateful for the display of manners, I lowered myself into it and demurely placed my napkin in my lap and watched Mr. Kitt bumble into the remaining chair.

"Oh yes, quite well." excepting for the hours I spent unable to sleep for thinking of my plans of the coming day. "I am glad it is not so hot as it was last week.

"Yes, that was quite a warm spell." Mr. Kitt replied to the comment not meant for him. He tapped his spoon around the egg far lower than was custom and with significantly more force than required so that minuscule shards of eggshell flew beyond the plate and landed on the table cloth. I doubt he was aware of his mess for the Manx man still seemed unnervingly transfixed by me. I demurred, focusing on my own meal, not wanting to glance up for fear I would meet his round eyes. Really, it was too much, were he a younger man it would still be inexcusably poor manners, but Mr. Kitt was at least as old as his compatriot! Lt. Smith took little note but continued to speak,

"We intend to march three times today, you may accompany us as many times as you wish though if you chose not to I would understand. Our first parade will be in an hour - that would be the one I would recommend you come along on, if any, for it tends to be quieter. Many of our detractors prefer not to be out at such an early hour so you will largely be safe from any risk of harm. We will march again at ten and a final time this evening. I will not make any pretense, we do expect there will be trouble and it may very well become violent. I will not attempt to dissuade you if you feel the Lord calling you to march with us, but I would be remiss if I did not warn you of the danger for there may be violence. I nodded.

"I believe I will observe the early procession, but I think it would be prudent if I then returned here." I agreed, dipping my toast into the egg and biting off the golden portion.

"Very good." Lt. Smith replied, attending to his breakfast now that the plan was settled.

* * *

Following an enthusiastic, if somewhat tiring, open air meeting, I watched from the side of the street as the motley parade of red shirt-sleeved Salvation Army men and blue bonneted women marched by singing loudly their songs of praise to their God, banner held high for all to see. The discordant tune achieved by their voices was augmented by the smattering of instruments which accompanied them - like the voices a few possessed skill at their art but this only achieved the effect of making the others seem all the worse for their lack of agreement. Over the din I could catch snatches of Lt. Smith's clear baritone rising above the rest. It was undeniably noisy, and a good deal more so than I would have tolerated on an early Sunday morning, but the sheer exuberance with which they made their noise was almost infectious - it brought to my mind the day Elizabeth, scarcely a toddler at the time, managed to sneak into the kitchen and discovered that, when hit with a great deal of force, a cooking pan could make quite a loud sound. She, as all children are wont to do upon discovering something new about the world inwhich they live, then felt the need to share her discovery with all present within the house - much to my parent's outrage and my brother and I's glee. I smiled in spite of myself. Suddenly, a window above the street opened and an unintelligible cry that sounded not unlike "Knock off that racket!" was expelled from within followed, in close succession, by the contents of a chamberpot. By good fortune the Salvationists had not been near and the foul mess only splattered upon the ground. Judging by the complete lack of reaction by the soldiers as they stepped around the puddle, I speculated this vulgar display was not an altogether uncommon occurrence. I follow behind the procession at a distance for some blocks until we neared the street on which I was residing. Catching the eye of Lt. Smith, who seemed to have anticipated my intention and thus sought the same, we exchanged nods to indicate my breaking from the crowd that had begun to form to watch the show and following the road back to the house.

Arriving, I took to my room, stripping off the vestiges of my rank. I extricated my clothing from behind the dresser drawer and commenced the simple task of dressing myself in far planer style. A simple braid and a twist, topped with a hat, an apron tied around the waist, and now I was indistinguishable from any factory woman. Grabbing my umbrella, I looked to the clock - it was approaching half past nine I still had an hour before the next procession. By now the men who formed the heart of the Skeleton Army would certainly be gathering wherever it was their likes spawned from. The pubs would not open until one - plenty of time for idle men of riled temper to rove about the streets - but the keepers should be about. I had seen a small pub just off of Montague, The King's Arms, its doorway a stone's throw across the alley from the barracks - it was likely if anyone might be able to provide me with details of the Skeleton Army, it would be they.

By the time I had reached the pub there was already a large crowd forming outside the barracks. I picked my way through the rowdy sea of laborers and boys and slipped down the passageway that ran behind the establishment from Montague st. to Augusta. As I had hoped, the back door was open, a young woman sat on the stoop, peeling potatoes and dropping them in a tub.

"Excuse me." I called to the woman. "Excuse me, miss." the woman eyed me somewhat suspiciously; immediately I knew my error. I coughed to clear my throat and began again in a somewhat rougher voice. "Miss! I'm sorry to bother you but I was wondrin' if you could use another hand about the place? My husband's bin out of work near a month now an' I got little ones to feed. I'll do anythin' you need." The woman again glanced from her work, seeing my face, drawn with worry, she appeared to soften at the tale of my plight.

"I don't know that we need help, I'll ask Mr. Strickland though, if you'll give me a minute." She said, getting up. A handful of minutes later she returned. "Mr. Strickland say we don't need any help. Where are you comin' from, anyhow?"

"Goring by Sea, I've been asking around all day. Are you certain there's nothing I can do?"

"Mr. Strickland says he doesn't need any help." she shrugged.

"Oh. Well thank you..." I trailed off sadly and made to leave. I had not made it two steps before she called out,

"Wait!" I turned to see her sympathetic face. "I might could use a hand peeling these potatoes. I'll give you two pence for it."

"Thank you, but I'm not looking for charity."

"Oh it wouldna be charity. With these crowds I've got to work extra hard. They work up such an appetite with all their carousing it's all I can do to give 'em drink, let alone feed 'em. You'd be doin' me a favor given' me some extra time. Just don't go tellin' Mr. Strickland." she insisted.

"Ok, then." the two letter word felt awkward in my mouth, but the woman seemed to know it. She shifted over to make room on the stoop and produced a second knife for me. I took a potato in hand and began to clumsily peel.

"My name's Eliza Renwald, what's yours?" the woman inquired absently, only half focused on her task.

"Mary Bird." I hoped Elizabeth would forgive me for invoking the name of her favorite doll for my own purposes.

"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Bird."

"Not as pleased as I am. I was afraid today would be as bad as yesterday and I couldn't bear to go home empty handed again."

"How many children do you have?"

"Two, Penny and Louis." I invented the names on the spot. "Penny is five this month, Louis is only three but you should hear him talk! You'd think there was nothing more interesting in the world than whatever new word he just learned." Eliza smiled.

"Yes, my little sister is the same. Always chattering like as she couldn't breathe without words comin' out." Loud cries echoed down the alleyway as the sound of the Salvation Army band exiting their headquarters was announced by the crowd of onlookers.

"What's goin' on out there? Is there a parade today?"

"You could say it's somethin' like that. It's the Sally Ann marchin' out to save our souls."

"The Sally Ann?"

"Don't tell me ya never heard of the Salvation Army?"

"Oh! Them? Yes, I've just never heard them called that before. I didn't know they had come to Worthing."

"They have alright, and they're a darn nuisance! 'Specially for us sharin' an alley with them."

"I thought you said they stir up business?"

"For Sunday Lunch and sometimes supper, sure, we might make enough to fix all the windows that get broke by the Bonfire boys. But that's not near enough to make up for our lost business. Who wants to come to a pub where at any time you might be accosted by a preacher tellin' you that imbibin' alcohol is the first step on the road to the depths of degradation? Or one with the walls to the entrance painted up with tar. Isn't scarcely any tourist business in this town anymore, they'd sooner go to Brighton where its quieter - hmpf, quieter there and they have the regiments. Didn't have any of these troubles afore the Sally Ann arrived, it was all as smooth as gravy."

"Bonfire boys?"

"Yeah, they call themselves the Skeleton Army now, but them's just the same boys from the Bonfire club. My sweetheart, Henry, says that's what they do now instead of plannin' for next year; he says come hell or high water they're goin' to run those Salvationists out of town." The ruckus had grown so loud with ribald shouts and course renditions of hymns sung over the proper lyrics of the Salvation Army that Eliza almost had to shout to be heard though she was only inches from me.

"Goodness me!" I cried, in mock fear. "Are we safe here?"

"You don't need to worry, they don't mean any real harm by it."

"Are you certain?" I pressed. "I'm afraid their words don't give me much confidence in that."

"They're just words, I mean, yes, there are a few boys who have gotten into scraps, but the Salvationists are just as much to blame for those. Anyone who says any more than that... well, it's just big talk, you know? None of them would actually do anything more'n make mischief; it's just a bit of fun at the expense of those overstuffed hypocrites and that uppity Cap'n of theirs. With any luck the Magistrates will order 'em to stop marching."

"You really don't care for them, do you?"

"Nah, if they really cared about the people of this town they'd stop making such a spectacle of themselves and hold their meetings inside. You know, we were fine with them until they started all this marchin' nonsense and holding open air meetings - sure they were annoying but it was only in small doses, now they shove the medicine down our throats whether we want to take it or not. And it's caused no end of trouble for us."

"So this... Skeleton Army... just wants to run them off?"

"Yes, Henry says he doesn't expect 'em to last the month and I think he's right. There used to be a lot more of 'em, barely any now. And you should see how many men are marching with Henry and the boys now! I swear, I've never seen so many men in all my days! If only they had more money." she groused, throwing another potato into the bucket. She reached to pick up another but found nothing there. "Well, I suppose that's all of 'em."

"Yes, I suppose it is." I replied, placing the last of my paltry offering of six into the bucket. Thankfully she had been far more interested in gossip than in my productivity. Eliza stood and brushed the peels from her apron,

"Well, thank you for your help, here's the two pence I promised you. Now you get home to your young'ins, those streets are not place for a woman today."

"Thank you. We are so grateful to you. God bless." I said hurriedly giving something of a curtsy, my umbrella flying up from my arm where it was hooked and hitting against my leg, hard, on the way down, and rushing off toward Augusta st. As I made my way through the street toward Montague place (for I opted to avoid the throng of people who awaited the return of the Salvationists by making my way east and circling back). From the North I could hear the raucous clamor of the crowd, but on this street it was eerily quiet, abandoned for the excitement elsewhere. From behind me I heard a plank clatter to the ground. I looked, expecting to see perhaps a person about their daily business, but none was apparent. Likely a cat, or a rat for they were rumored to obtain large size in these seaside towns. Or, at least, that was what Jet had intimated to me before I left for Worthing. Twenty-two years old and still trying to frighten his sister. I shook my head, allowing a smile to cross my lips. That boy! Less a boy now, I suppose, in all ways a man but for those ways God might define. Perhaps he might benefit from an encounter with the Salvationists, I chuckled. Turned on my heel. I was certain now that I had heard shuffling from behind me, but still, I saw nothing. "I warn you, I am capable of defending myself." I called out to the empty street. Walking more swiftly I approached my cross street when suddenly I heard the sound of heavy footfalls running behind me. Looking ahead, I saw the crowd only moments ahead. To the left, my street was desolate. Did I dare risk a confrontation? I did not need to turn to know the person chasing me was physically more capable than I and might very well be armed - I might be able to fend him off were it just a blade, but if he had a pistol... I ran into the crowd, losing my pursuer among their number. Quickly, I realized I had traded the fire for the frying pan, I was buffeted by the men of the crowd further into their midst until I came into a melee of bodies as I realized the parade of Salvationist has been fully subsumed into the mass of Skeletons, the flag wavered while red shirts attempted to push their way through the mob and rough looking men gleefully impeded them, waving three large black banners bedecked by grinning skulls. An elbow sharply contacted my back sending my spare form sprawling into the arms a bulky laborer who had not though enough of the even to clean the filth off his carcass.

"Well hallo, dearie." he drawled, the acrid smell of alcohol caused my nose to wrinkle. "Fancy a little fun?"

"No thank you, sir." I replied, struggling to extricate myself from his tight grasp.

"Ah come on, I'll bet a girlie like you has never been with a real man." he said, attempting a kiss.

"That is quite enough!" I said, swinging my umbrella across his face. It connected with force enough to ground the man. I stepped over his unconscious form. Holding out the bamboo wrapped steel shaft Quentin had commissioned for me, I pushed my way through the fray until I saw, practically swimming in the crushing sea of bodies, the intelligent brown eyes in that open face I knew so very well, "Quentin!" I cried out over the din. His head snapped to face the direction from whence his name had come. He searched the crowd, settling on my waving form he squinted and then his eyes widened in recognition,

"Mina!" he called. We pushed our way toward each other. A man attempted to take liberties with me while my back was turned, I spun and gave him a sharp strike across the back from my umbrella for his trouble. I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned on my boot heel, my umbrella held ready to level another punishing blow. "Easy now." Quentin laughed. A body fell against mine, I made a quick backward jab with the weapon to remove it. Quentin ducked a stray elbow causing it to only graze his temple.

"I imagine it will be a good deal more difficult getting out of this than it was getting in." I conjectured.

"Most likely." he agreed.

"What became of your walking stick?"

"Silliest thing, I left it at home. It is no matter, I never had much skill with it anyhow." he dodged another unintentional blow. "They seem to be breaking up at the beach, perhaps we should make our way down?" he suggested, wrapping his elbow around mine.

"Seems a good idea. I would fancy a stroll along the shore." I replied, and now secured to each other, we forced our way down to the shoreline.


	6. Chapter 6

"I am merely saying that a small, controlled explosion would have expedited our egress significantly."

"I tell you this for the last time, I will not allow you to fill my boot heel with explosives. I may not especially like my feet, but I prefer to do all in my power to ensure they remain attached to the rest of my body."

"I swear it would be perfectly safe." I shot Quentin such a withering look he immediately dropped the line of argument.

"I thought you wrote you were coming on the evening train?"

"I had intended to leave after I had completed services, but this morning father greeted us at Breakfast with a bolt from the blue saying he had been hit by the sudden inspiration of the Spirit last night and wished to give all the sermons today. I attempted to argue the point but he would not hear of it, he practically shoved me out the door."

"I suppose this sudden inspiration of the Spirit had no relation to my staying with the former Rev. Smith?"

"There may have been a letter between the two intimating that particular piece of information." he answered. I put a hand to my brow, running my second finger across it a few times.

"He might try to be less obvious in his motivations."

"He might, but then we have proven so blissfully obtuse to the perfection of the match up until this point I imagine it will not be much longer until he begins to bluntly state it in conversation."

"Miss Moore, would you please pass the peas, and could I trouble you to marry my son?" I said, mimicking the old preacher's lofty tone. Quentin and I both broke into laughter at the image; it was a straight minute before he was able to catch his breath,

"You make sport of it now, but give it a year and, mark me, you will rue your levity." We walked along the shoreline watching the whitecaps turn to foam on the sand. Still with his eyes on the horizon, Quentin spoke, "I heard you saw James recently."

"Yes, he was here on Friday, but only briefly. I required his expertise on the case."

"And was he able to help?"

"I believe so, he went to Wembley to try and locate the man's sister. But I surmise you already are aware of that much."

"Yes." Quentin replied, still staring off to the sea. I watched as the black silhouette of a sail cut across the line of sky. "How was he?" the thoughtful young man finally ventured.

"He seemed well. Very much the man I remembered." I answered.

"And you?" Quentin turned, his concerned brown eyes searching mine for the secrets no one else would think to seek out. It seemed in that moment all my emotions tumbled forth to confess themselves to the preacher. Overwhelmed, I placed a hand on my brow,

"I don't rightly know. I thought I was well past it all but seeing him again... I keep recalling Nicholas and the fate of Lord Bond. I fear, I fear I might have been once again too quick to judge the guilty party - that perhaps I might miss something right in front of my face again."

"You were not wrong in believing your Uncle to be the guilty party."

"Yes, but I missed Nicholas and it almost cost us the war."

"And your life." he added, gently. I nodded,

"That as well. And these Salvationists are such a strange lot! I don't know what to make of this Lt. Smith at all!"

"Has he not treated you well?"

"He has." I conceded. "He's been nothing but hospitable insofar as opening his house to me. It's not that at all. I suppose it is hard to put into words. He's a very single-minded man."

"In regards his faith, he is. The opposition from the Skeleton Army weighs heavily on his mind, I know. I wish you were given the chance to know him under more normal circumstances; but, I suppose, murder has no season." he replied, beginning to walk down the beach again.

"We, that is to say, James and I, believe the murderer is using the conflict between the two armies to conceal his identity by making the murders appear to be the work of the Skeleton Army."

"Do you believe the murderer to be one of the Skeleton Army?"

"No, not truly - I have gone forwards and back on the question for days now. The Skeleton Army lacks the organization required to perform such acts. The group consists of people who, as a whole, make for a much better mob than an army. But that is not to say a murderer would not find their ranks a comfortable place to hide in for there is no oversight. But then, there is the matter of the last victim..."

"And what is that?"

"She was dressed in a Salvation Army uniform."

"God in Heaven." Quentin breathed. "She was a Salvationist?"

"There's no way for us to be sure whether she was or not as we have thus far been unable to identify her; the villain made certain of that."

"How do you mean?"

"He ruined her face beyond recognition. We know she came from wealth, my guess would be gentry."

"Yes, because a missing Noble would certainly have been marked by now." he finished my thought. I smiled, it was good to be once again in the company of the man whose heart beat the same as mine.

"Precisely. But beyond that there are still far too many possibilities. I am of the opinion that she is not a Salvationist."

"Then the uniform would be a ruse to implicate the Skeleton Army! Which would mean the killer was likely not a Skeleton at all."

"Yes, but he would then have to have access to a woman's uniform and there are very few who would."

"Except someone who was in the Salvation Army or related to a female member."

"And therein lies the trouble." I answered.

"A house divided..." he intoned. I stopped,

"Oh Hell's Bells!" I exclaimed, removing my thick leather boot and turning it over, allowing a cascade of sand to fall back to the beach from whence it came.

"I believe we should be getting back to the house. It won't be much longer before Rev. Smith returns and if he sees you dressed in such a fashion..." Quentin looked me over from top to tip.

"My word!" I exclaimed, turning bright red with embarrassment; Quentin grinned amused by my discomfiture. "I completely forgot! Yes, let us be off. I can't even begin to think how I might explain this."

* * *

I had changed back into my proper dress just in time to start the tea before the door burst open, allowing the entrance of Lt. Smith. His face looked as if it had aged ten years from the morning. The sleeve of his red shirt hung freely from the shoulder, long threads revealing the violence which had rent it. His lower jaw was scuffed with rose-stained dirt. "Rev. Smith, are you hurt?" Quentin said, rushing to aid the man.

"No," the black haired man replied. "Just a cuff to the jaw. Nothing to trouble yourself with. And do call me George, you are hardly the lad I met eighteen years ago, there is no need to address me as if you still were." he answered, allowing half a smile to form on the uninjured side of his face. "How is your father these days?"

"Still planning to live forever. He insists on giving at least one sermon a week when he's home."

"Traveling often, then?"

"Yes, at least once a month."

"The luxury of a curate who can trust his Vicar." Quentin smiled gratefully for the compliment - the way he smiled, there was nothing quite like it. There was a singular, boyish quality about it, and yet a warmth, a security that led one to believe that perhaps all would work to the best. The teapot whistled loudly demanding my attention. Flustered, I grabbed for the handle but caught it too close to the shoulder,

"Youch!" I cried, dropping the pot which spilled its scalding contents over the stove, extinguishing the flame. Instinctively I grabbed for the falling pot but only succeeded in further knocking it away (thankfully!) causing it to fall to the floor with a loud clash. I watched dumbly as the remaining water slowly trickled from the spout onto the rug.

"Mina!" Quentin cried.

"Miss Moore, are you all right?" Lt. Smith was instantly at my side. Seeing I was well tended, Quentin stooped over and began to clean the mess I had created.

"Oh, yes, I'm fine. It's just a small burn is all." I flushed red from embarrasment at the attention my clumsiness brought upon me. Lt. Smith took my hand, turning it to see the shining red flesh traveling the length of my forefinger to the web of my thumb.

"Here," he murmured. Taking a small portion of water in his palm he mixed in flour with his finger until a paste had been formed, then, taking my hand once more, he gently applied the mixture to my wound. "Now, you may need to reapply the poultice later, if it begins to hurt again." he directed, wrapping my hand with a rag.

"I'm so sorry about your teapot." I apologized.

"It is no matter, just dented a little." he said, righting the pot on the stove. "When Bertha was younger she accidentally dropped my mother's old porcelain teapot, smashed it into a hundred pieces. Now I use metal ones." he chuckled, for the first time I saw his blue eyes twinkle with mirth. "Now then, how about the pair of you sit and I'll make the tea?" I felt my cheeks blazing.

"Come now Mina, we still have so much to discuss." Quentin said, leading me from the sopping stove with its strange tender. "I meant to tell you: I found a book that you might enjoy." Quentin and I sat, he attempting to ameliorate my humiliation through easy conversation, but I was not readily able to surrender it and his attempts to draw me in were met with monosylabic replies while behind us I heard the faint clatter of Lt. Smith bustling about the kitchen. I fought the urge to turn and see what he was about. Finally, I heard the whistle of the tea kettle followed by the sound of water being poured. In moments Lt. Smith had brought over a tray laden with all the accoutraments of a proper afternoon tea.

"Miss Moore, do you take any sugar or cream in your tea?" he offered, spoon in hand.

"Just one spoonful, please." I paused a moment. "And a dash of cream, if you would." I watched as he added the ingredients and stirred the contents of the teacup before passing the saucer to my grateful hands. I winced as I felt the warmth of the cup seep through my bandage to the raw skin below.

"Still three spoonfuls of sugar, Quentin?"

"Yes. I must applaud your memory."

"It is not hard, Dinah and you both have always possessed the most incurable sweet tooth."

"I regret to inform you, Dinah has been cured of the vice." Lt. Smith raised his brow as though in inquiry, but Quentin did not explain further and the matter was dropped.

"Anyhow," Lt. Smith continued, stirring his own tea until it had turned a soft brown color. "I wanted to inform you that Mrs. Shaw has invited all of us to dine with her family Tuesday evening." I grimaced behind my teacup - how I loathed these forced marches to the dinner table of some strange family! Invitations always accepted so gratefully on my behalf! It was little better than impressment. "It seems she was quite impressed with you, Miss Moore. So what say you? Quentin?"

"Of course! It would be lovely to see Mrs. Shaw once again." Quentin merrily answered. "What do you think, Mina? Are you able to join us?" I sat dumbly staring at the pair, not sure I fully comprehended the situation.

"Are you asking if I will attend dinner with the Shaw family?" I asked, slowly.

"Well, yes." Lt. Smith turned his head, perplexed at the question. "I'm not certain what your plans for that day entail and I would not want to put you out." I was stunned. Never had I ever been offered the choice of attending a dinner, never truly; for, even were they not directly involved, all such invitations were decided by my parents for me. I knew without even having to inquire of them what their response would be - Never! God forbid that I might dine with such a low element. Particularly where the matriarch was engaged in the constant exposure of herself to ridicule as a Salvationist who clearly intended to attempt to match me with her grandson, a common shop boy.

"I believe I do not have any specific plans for the evening, I believe I would enjoy a dinner with the Shaw family." I answered, a sinister smile spreading across my face in spite of my best efforts, I took a sip of tea to conceal it. Mrs. Shaw was not so terribly old, she could not be much above sixty years, which would make her grandson, most likely, not far in age from those who threw stones at his Grandmother.

"Good, I will inform her of your coming at the meeting tonight." Lt. Smith stated. He took a sip from his tea, frowned slightly, placed the cup on the table, got up and went to the kitchen.

"What are you thinking?" Quentin whispered to me.

"Mrs. Shaw has a grandson who is a peer of the larger part of the Skeleton Army. Perhaps we may be able to glean a little information regarding their organization from him." Quentin nodded as Lt. Smith returned with a small plate of buttered bread.

* * *

"Oh Miss Moore, it is lovely you were able to join us for dinner!" Mrs. Shaw fussed about me, picking at my shawl and attempting to take my umbrella, which I clasped protectively. "Please, let me take your shawl. I have been cooking all day and the house is far too warm. I surveyed the small house. The foyer was rather a small affair, the only furnishing it possessed was a tall mahogany hall tree that seemed to serve as mirror, table, hat rack, coat holder, and umbrella stand all combined into one singular piece. Rococo revival, I guessed from its ornate strangeness. Most probably this was the finest piece in the house; displayed openly for guests as a matter of pride. On the wall opposite portraits of the family were hung in a vertical line. As I examined them Mrs. Shaw finally divested me of my shawl and umbrella.

"Is this a picture of you?" I asked, indicating a delicate young woman, her head bent, eyes humbly bent to the ground - it was lovely to behold.

"Oh yes, when I was a bride. And this one is of my son, Charles and his wife, Joan, with Russell, my grandson." In front of the pair stood a rather surly looking young boy whose expression gave the distinct impression he had been punished for fidgeting during the photograph. "And, of course, this is my husband, Donald with his family." I counted a dozen in all. "If you'll follow me to the dining room." She did not have far to lead for the room was directly around the corner separated from the kitchen by only a doorway. She had not exaggerated the heat but my discomfort was second to the delectable smell of meat pies. I had yet to have a proper meal at the Lieutenant's house - I guessed his daughter managed the cooking since the staff had departed - for Lt. Smith seemed perfectly content to live off bread, eggs, and potatoes if left to his own devices, and I possessed none but the barest knowledge of that particular form of alchemy and even that was untested.

"This is my husband, Donald." I recognized the hunched, aged man from the meeting. He leaned heavily on a worn cane.

"Pleasure to see you again, Miss Moore." he managed a small bow.

"My son, Charles, and Joan." she indicated a rather plain looking couple of which neither could be said to possess any specific feature that was either agreeable or disagreeable.

"Lovely to meet you." the woman replied. "We have heard such wonderful reports of you from Mother. I apologize, our son seems to be running a bit late, but he will be along shortly, I am sure." her strained smile reminded me much of my own mother's.

"Yes, I do apologize, work must have kept him later than usual." Mrs. Shaw simpered. It struck me this might be a more common occurrence than they wished to acknowledge and for reason they suspected but preferred to remain ignorant of.

"There is nothing to worry about, we are in no hurry to eat." Lt. Smith assured the women. Of all the times he would choice to speak for me! I took a seat, trying my hardest not to frown at the thought of the terrible tragedy of all that lovely food growing cold from neglect all due to this cruel reprobate of a young man who clearly had no proper appreciation for the most important things in life.

"Will you be attending the hearing tomorrow, Miss Moore?" Charles Shaw asked. I honestly had not considered the question until that moment. Lt. Smith turned from his conversation, waiting with interest for my response.

"No, I don't believe I shall." Lt. Smith's jaw seemed to visibly relax, I believed he was glad of my response.

"No place for a young woman anyway." Mr. Shaw interjected. "You can bet those Skeletons will be out in full force."

"Quentin and I will be attending." Lt. Smith offered. I looked to Quentin for affirmation of this foolhardy action, he returned my querying glance with a half smile and shrug. Sometimes he was as infuriating as Roger! I could see why they got on so well.

"I'm so very worried about what the Magistrates will do." Mrs. Shaw dithered, her husband took her hand giving it a gentle pat.

"I cannot conjecture what they intend to do. It is my prayer that they will see the good work we do and assign proper police protection to our parades that we may continue to minister in safety. But I fear they may be blinded by a love of mammon. We must pray that God will guide their decision and trust Him to work it to His glory." Lt. Smith reassured the agitated woman.

At that moment the front door slammed open, all eyes turned to the hall where I, from my vantage point next to the doorway, watched a young man struggle to tear himself free of his coat. I spied, or at least I thought I did, a flash of yellow in the frenetic movement.

"Ma, it's hotter'n the devil's furnace in here!" the rough voice called, still struggling with the garment.

"Russell, dear, watch your language, we have guests." The struggling halted as quickly as the words were said and a ruddy young face peered up, a mop of curly auburn hair peaking out from under the coat, his round eyes staring directly into my own.

"Oh blast!" he mouthed more than said. I failed to stifle a giggle at the sight of the poor young man, I attempted to cover it with my mouth but only succeeded in making the matter worse for the boy who had turned quite a shade of red. He finally managed to extricate himself from his coat revealing himself to be a broad, stocky man, not especially tall or plump but having the build of a man who was accustomed to labor. Within those round cheeks sat a small mouth and a short, round nose, giving him something of the appearance of a cherub. A fallen cherub, I thought to myself with a smile. "Please, excuse me." he blurted out as he turned down the hall to that led to what I guessed were the sleeping quarters. Then he turned, bowed quickly, and shuffled down the hallway to the first door where he ducked inside, still holding his coat. He return a few minutes later, hair combed, and wearing a clean shirt in what I guessed even he recognized as being an effort too late to impress.

"Russell, this is Lady Philomena Moore of Greenmoor Commons in N-shire." he extended a rough hand, then withdrew it, realizing his error and attempted something of a harried bow.

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Moore." he murmured. I could see the shame on the face of each Shaw at the the conduct of their son, Mrs. Shaw appeared as though she might burst into tears for the humiliation of it all. Russell's round face glowed crimson underneath his brunette complexion. Sympathy swelled my heart for the unfortunate young man in front of me - clearly he had no pretensions to rank. Certainly, he owned no charms that might entice a Lady to consider him. But then: pity has a charm all its own, and pity him I did in his unenviable plight. I decided, in that moment, to show mercy on my junior. I smiled widely, in the way Millie named as my most charming for if, a bit odd, it was authentic in heart,

"Thank you Mr. Shaw," I replied, offering him my hand magnanimously. "The pleasure is mine." Immediately the tension in the room was broken. Relief seemed to wash over the man's entire form, his shoulders relaxed, he took my hand and led me to a seat at the table. "Thank you." I said, as he pushed the chair in and took his place next to me. The rest of our company followed suit. I paid little mind to the table conversation, choosing to occupy my mouth with food rather than speech. Russell sat in uncomfortable silence beside me. Something was troubling me, I could not place it only that it had begun with Russell's arrival. What could it be? I thought as I slowly chewed a piece of steak and kidney pie. Suddenly, my gut decided to make its desire to revenge itself for the piddling food it had endured the past few days known. I attempted to ignore it but it would not be dismissed as a hunger pain might. Painful cramps stabbed my belly causing perspiration to form. Finally, my last bite of pie secured, I could bear it no longer. "Please excuse me a moment." I apologized, hurriedly getting up from my chair.

"Is there something the matter?" Mrs. Shaw asked. Ah! Well meaning questions I would rather not answer.

"No, nothing is wrong." I attempted to say as pleasantly as possible under the circumstances. "Just need to take a turn about the hall is all. Helps with digestion."

"Down the hall, to the right." Lt. Smith whispered discreetly from my left. I shot him a look of pure gratitude.

The trouble being managed, I started back to the dining room when I saw it, lying on the bed in the room almost directly across - Russell's brown leather coat was lying on the bed, strangely situated as though it had been adjusted after being tossed aside. It was a queer thing; why go through the trouble to fix its position but not just hang it with its comrades on the hall tree? Had I not seen a flash of yellow? I did not see anything yellow on the coat from here. I peered down the hall from which vantage point I could see into the dining room where my companions were lost in conversation. I quickly stepped into the room. It was sparsely furnished: a desk, a chair, a bed, and a small wardrobe doors still hanging open revealing a sparse collection of clothing. I allowed a smile as I observed the long blue coat, yellow stockings lay folded underneath - vestiges of younger days, he must have been quite the student to wish to keep them. Likely, it was the same sad story I had seen repeated often enough in N-shire. A likely young boy goes off to school, but despite showing an aptitude is pulled out when he turns fifteen and goes to work for his family. Lightly stepping over the shirt that lay, mussed, upon the floor, I made my way to the bed and lightly turned the worn garment. Underneath, almost loose from its buttonhole, lay a wilting sunflower! I drew back as if I had just found a viper, "He's a Skeleton!" I gasped. Quickly, I returned the coat to its original position.


	7. Chapter 7

I returned to the table, gracing Russell Shaw with an apologetic smile for my absence which only succeeded in causing him to drop the food from his fork. Most assuredly, it was less my charms than my rank that caused such a reaction in him. How daunting to be seated next to a Lady! I would feel the same were I seated beside a Prince. That is to say, I had felt the same though it was for a blessedly brief period. Catching Quentin's eye from across the table I mouthed, "We need to talk." He nodded in assent. What I had discovered, the possible implications of such a thing, could not be ignored. A house divided, indeed.

Supper concluded quite late, with Lt. Smith finally begging the pardon of the Shaws stating that he must be up early to prepare for the meeting with the Magistrates. "Thank you for coming!" Mrs. Shaw enthused.

"Thank you for having us, Bernadette." Lt. Smith replied, taking her thin hand, "Donald."

"It's always a pleasure Mrs. Shaw." Quentin said, giving the elderly lady a kiss on the cheek.

"Thank you for your kind invitation." I added. "The dinner was wonderful." Russell, who had seemed to be struggling to speak, finally found his words.

"You will come again?" he ejaculated more than asked.

"I am certain you will see me again before I leave." I answered honestly, unable to prevent a vulpine smile from my lips. He appeared bewildered, an idiot's grin spreading across his stunned visage.

"Please feel free to call whenever you have the inclination." Mrs. Shaw called as we descended the front stair.

"Thank you, farewell Mrs. Shaw, Mr. Shaw." Lt. Smith returned with a wave. We had only walked a short distance from the Shaw's house conversing more merrily than at any time since I had arrived when a voice arrested out movements,

"Oi! Reverend Smith!" We looked to the origin of the voice as one. Perched on a stone wall on the other side of the street stood a brown haired youth who could not have been older than sixteen and was likely a bit younger than that. Having gained our attention he grinned and drew his arm back, and then pitched forward. I didn't so much see the stone as I saw the object bounce from Lt. Smith shoulder to my dress from where it slid harmlessly to the ground. I stared at the heavy grey missile, then to the boy who grinned proudly as though he had just performed some heroic deed.

"How dare you!" Quentin shouted. "A man of the cloth!" He made to rush the boy, but Lt. Smith held his hand up. Instantly, Quentin fell back, muttering bitterly. The boy, still grinning, disappeared behind the wall before any further recriminations might be made.

"Are you hurt Lt. Smith?" I asked worriedly. The man made no reply but silently led us back to his house, all former levity now lost.

We arrived at the house in a black mood, Lt. Smith still had not spoken a word since the incident. As he removed his coat I noticed a large dark spot on the shoulder of his crimson shirt. "Lt. Smith! You're injured!" I cried, rushing to inspect the spot; he shrunk from my touch.

"It's nothing for you to worry yourself over."

"Nonsense. If you please, let me have a look." I commanded.

"You had best do as she says, Mina has a way with injuries so long as they don't require stitching." I shot Quentin a spiteful look - so Roger had been telling tales on me. Sighing, Lt. Smith finally acquiesced, unbuttoning the top three buttons of the shirt and pulling the collar far enough over that the pale, waxen flesh of the joint revealing the very edge of a stark rose contrast.

"Just a little further..." I requested. He did as asked. Pulling the fabric down further; the deep reds and purples of a bruise were splashed with liquid crimson bubbling from a dark gash in the skin. I frowned, "Quentin, please fetch me some bandages, soap, and boil some water." The young man was quick to do as he was told. I took a silken handkerchief from my reticule and pressed it to the wound, amazed at how fast it changed from snowy white to crimson. "It will only be a minute," I said more to reassure myself than my staid patient. "The cut is not very deep, there should be no need for surgery."

Lt. Smith shook his head softly, "I baptized that boy." The heartbreaking tone of his words sliced through me as a knife. Until this moment, I had never considered his plight. He had resided here nineteen years; for a number of those years he had been a respected clergyman among these people. They were not merely cruel strangers to him as they were to me; but his friends, neighbors, former parishioners. He had known this child who had injured him for the boy's entire life! A tear rolled down my cheek, unnoticed by the man. I had never given a thought to what he had given up. I heard quick footfalls as Quentin descended the stairs with a handful of bandages,

"Here," he placed them of the sofa beside me. "I'll have the water in just a moment."

* * *

Late that night, I found myself tossing and turning in my narrow bed. Finally, deciding that perhaps a cup of tea might aid me in my endeavors, I wrapped a shawl about my shoulders, lit a candle, and crept from the room careful that I might not rouse my neighbor. As I walked to the staircase I noticed a soft, golden light emanating from below. At the sound of my descent Quentin looked up from his work. "Couldn't sleep?" he asked.

"No. You?"

"No. Not with the meeting tomorrow. My body is willing but my thoughts are less cooperative." he rehooked the batlike wing of fabric onto the shining metal rib of my umbrella. "You really do need to be more gentle with this, silk is not cheap to replace." he chided as he probed the joints for any sign of weakness.

"And it was a lovely birthday present from you." I returned with a kiss to his open forehead.

"Don't think I didn't regret it for the year."

"Only a quarter of it, you were quite fond of the walking stick as I recall."

"I would be fonder if you had simply given me the funds to construct it myself."

"But then there would have been no element of surprise!"

"You cannot be certain of that. I am fully capable of surprising myself." I allowed a wry smile at his assertion.

"I fear the meeting will go poorly for them. The tide of public sentiment seems to be against their cause."

"Yes," Quentin lay the umbrella aside and gestured to the chair to his corner. I sat. "the battle does appear to be a losing one. The Magistrates are just as likely to lay the blame on the Salvation Army for being the cause of the ruckus as they are the Skeletons for creating it. But enough of that. No amount of talk tonight will change their decision tomorrow; what was it you wished to speak to me of at dinner?"

"It's about Russell Shaw." I whispered.

Quentin raised an eyebrow, "What about the young Mr. Shaw?"

"He's a member of the Skeleton Army." I hissed.

Quentin shifted to the edge of his seat, "Are you certain?"

"Yes, while I was in the hall I noticed something amiss in his room and decided to have a look. Quentin, there was a sunflower in the buttonhole of his coat!"

"He's the son and grandson of Salvationists - he would not wear that without intention; he knows its meaning. But do you really think he could be involved with the murders? That is what you are thinking, correct?"

I nodded, "I'm not positive, but he certainly would be capable of subduing a woman by sheer strength alone. And he does have the means to acquire a Salvation Army uniform. He's more intelligent than his countenance would lead one to believe, or his conversation for that matter, that I know. He was terribly awkward in my presence, but then that may not apply to all women."

"That is true, he certainly had a great deal of pressure on him to impress you - that would make any man quail. Still, what if it bore out that he struggled with all women?"

"Then perhaps the first murder was simply an accident. An encounter with a lady of the night gone wrong. He didn't mean to kill her, but discovered he took pleasure in the act of murder and thus felt compelled to kill again."

"And the consistencies with the Blackpool killer?"

"He might have learned of the case while away at school from another child whose parents were from the Blackpool area. Lurid tales are always popular fodder for late nights in boarding school dormitories." Quentin stared at me, astonished,

"How did you know he attended a boarding school?" I regarded him with an expression mixed of arrogance and dubiousness,

"He kept the uniform in his closet. Christ's Hospital, if I'm not wrong. The school is situated too far away for him to have attended without boarding there."

"But why disguise the woman then?"

"It may not have been a disguise. Perhaps she really was a member of the Salvation Army and he murdered her out of his hatred for them. Or should I say his hatred for his family."

"His hatred for his family? I find that difficult to believe."

"Ponder for a moment: he excelled in his academic studies; perhaps he believed he could have become a barrister or a man of letters - something far more than what he is now - but his parents pulled him from school before he could pursue these lofty goals and instead, he became a shop boy. There's no disgrace in it were that all you had hoped out of life, but he had once dreamed of a better future and sees his parents as having robbed him of it. So he despises them for it and thus strikes out against the thing he feels they most love, the Salvation Army, by becoming a Skeleton. Then an unknown Salvation Army woman appears, he's never seen her before and he has seen them all - perhaps she asks for directions to the barracks - he attempts to dissuade her and when she still decides to continue, he follows her and murders her (he's killed before, has he not, what is another woman?) before she can reach the barracks in revenge for his murdered dreams. Or she may have been a woman he took for a prostitute and murdered, then he dressed her in his grandmother's uniform to make her more difficult to identify by clothing alone."

"It is a persuasive argument."

"I know, I almost believe it, myself."

"But you don't?"

"Only insofar as I am not certain he is capable of murder. Beyond that it is a correct assessment of the man."

"So how do you intend to go about investigating him?"

"That part I am still considering. I may require your assistance."

"You know you need only name it."

"Well then," I hesitated, somewhat embarrassed by my next question, "May I borrow your shirt and trousers?"

* * *

Lt. Smith tugged at the bottom of his dark blue coat, smoothing it. Placing his military style visor hat, red ribbon emblazoned with the words "The Salvation Army" across the front, on his head he exhaled deeply. "Are you certain you don't wish to accompany us to the hearing?" Quentin inquired of me.

"No, I have letters that require my attention." I answered, handing him his coat. There was a knock at the door, it opened, revealing Mr. Kitt.

"Are you ready?" the large man asked.

"In a moment, Mr. Kitt." Lt Smith turned to me, "We'd best be off. Take care while we're away. I would not recommend going into town today if you might avoid it." he said with a nod.

"We'll be home by evening." Quentin leaned in, giving the appearance of placing a kiss on my cheek, "Are you certain you won't be recognized?"

"He scarcely looked at me the entire evening. There is no need to worry, I will be fine. If anything the sense of familiarity will work to my advantage."

"Take care of yourself." he admonished, pulling away.

"Be safe out there." I returned. "You may wish to take an umbrella. It looks like rain."

"I will take that under advisement." he replied, reaching for the item.

"Ah, you'll have no need for that!" Mr. Kitt interjected. "A finer day there never was!" I could barely contain my contempt for the man at this moment.

"I am certain the weather will hold, and if it doesn't I will hold Mr. Kitt accountable." Quentin posited.

"It would still ease my mind if you would take it."

"Isn't that just like a woman!" Mr. Kitt declared. "Worryin' about every little possible trouble." You are precisely right Mr. Kitt, and I would prefer my dear friend be properly protected from those little possible troubles. I glowered at him vengefully as Quentin withdrew from the umbrella.

"Mr. Kitt, I have little control over what you say out side of this house, but I would remind you that when you are enjoying my hospitality you will not speak in such a manner to or of any woman." Lt. Smith chastised the lug. "Well, we'd best be off. We should be home in time for supper." I waved from the front door as they left.

"Be careful," I whispered before turning back into the house.

There was no time to lose. I quickly dressed in the clothes Quentin had lent me. He was correct, the trousers were a touch too long, as were the sleeves. I rolled the sleeves to the elbow, cuffed the trousers, and knotted my hobnail boots. Tying my hair in a low tail behind my head, I placed that boy's cap I had bought so many years on my head and examined myself in the mirror. I hung my shaking head in shame - I should not be able to pass so well for a man.

Within the hour I had arrived at the grocery on Montague st. Even from this location I was almost consumed by the crowd attracted by the hearing. It seemed everyone in town had turned out for the event and that, judging by the chants of the crowd, few were there in support of the Salvationists. I ducked into the little grocery store where I wasted no time in locating my quarry standing at the front having a rather animated conversation with a pair of young women.

"I saw you had a visitor last night." the one, a handsome golden haired girl with well formed, if somewhat sharp, features, teased.

"Rev. Smith came by with a pair of guests who were staying with him." Russell evaded.

"You know which one I mean." the young woman replied, archly.

"I'm afraid I am at a loss to know who you mean, Kate." He was playing coy!

"The pretty lady!" the other injected. "Tell us who she is!"

"Oh, I had near forgotten her, just a Lady from N-shire. Anyhow, she is not near so pretty as you, Bess." The other young women, her mane of red hair set ablaze by the sun filtering in from the window giving her pretty features the appearance of something otherworldly, tittered with laughter at his response. This was certainly not the shy young man I had met at dinner! Here was a new creation before my very eyes!

"So are you going to set your cap for her then?" Kate demanded.

"For a Lady?" he sniffed loudly. "I'm not sure I could tolerate one of those about the house. 'Sides, then how could I marry you?"

"Is that a proposal?"

"Merely an observation. Anyhow, here is the flour you ordered." he handed the sack to the woman who took it, roughly, from him all while he grinned like a sphinx. Seeing him now, tall, barrel chested, auburn curls set aglow by the morning sun, all charm and confidence... I suddenly found myself quite unable to speak. This was, without doubt, not the murderer I sought. "May I help you, sir?" he called from across the store. My near heart skipped a beat!

Momentarily, I sought to regain myself - perhaps I might still be able to make use of this man, "Yes, I was looking for some Earl Grey - Russell Shaw, is that you? Why it's been ages!"

Russell squinted, searching for some feature of recognition,"I'm sorry, you look familiar but I'm afraid I can't place you..."

"Phillip Moore, from Christ's Hospital - I was a year ahead of you, remember? Back then they used to call me Pip because of that stupid Dickens serial." I scowled.

"Yes! And you hated it!" It was amazing the fictions people might concoct in their minds with just the slightest suggestion.

"Let us be fair, I hated anything that bore any resemblence to Dickens. So you've found yourself a position as a shop boy then? I thought sure you would be a solicitor."

"Needed to earn my keep, same as everyone else. And what of you?"

"I spent a few years as a deck hand, I never had your skill with the pen, you know. It's a dodgy business, though, and I believe I may be regarded as bad luck - half the ships I've signed on for sank before arrival - I believe they no longer tell me about positions anymore. As of late I've been thinking to join the military."

"Hopefully not the Navy!" He laughed. "So what brings you to Worthing, then?"

"Just traveling from Littlehampton to Brighton, figured I might stop by for a visit. What's all that commotion about? I had always heard this was a quiet town."

"It was until the Salvation Army declared war on us. Now we're overrun!"

"Salvationists? That's bloody awful! Wouldn't be so bad if they'd just keep inside their meeting halls, but must they make such a damnable spectacle of themselves?"

"Precisely! They're killing our businesses and ruining our peace! So we're trying to run them out. They're having a hearing today in front of the Magistrates at Montague Hall, we're hoping the Magistrates ban them from marching - gatherin' at all if we're lucky."

"Who's 'we'?

"The Skeleton Army, of course, proud defenders of the common man." he declared triumphantly. "We do our very darndest to make certain those Salvationists have no quarter or comfort in this town. At least so long as they insist on disrupting our peace."

"Sounds like a noble cause." I answered.

"If you'd like, we're having a meeting Saturday night at The Bonfire Boys headquarters at the Castle Hotel and Tavern on Newland, you'd be welcome to come. It gets a bit tight, but I'll get you in."

"I'd be much obliged to you for it."

"We can always use another good man. Here's your tea." he handed me the package.

"Thank you. I'll see you on Saturday, then."

"Oh, and don't forget to wear a sunflower!" he called after me. I raised my hand in acknowledgement and left the shop for the street, which was now wholly overrun by spectators and those raising the standard of the Skeletons. I slipped through the mass to a side street and made my way back to the house.

* * *

Arriving with plenty of time to spare before my company reappeared, I changed into more ladylike attire, prepared a cup of tea, and settled myself on the sofa with one of Bertha's novels - a very worn little piece entitled The History of Woman Suffrage. I smiled to myself at the title; I had seen precious few works on the subject, and this one I had not seen before. How she had managed to acquire the thing from America I could only imagine. That her father allowed her to have such literature in the house, and not only allowed it but left it on the bookshelf where it might be observed by any visitor, was scandalous to my sensibilities. Certainly it increased my regard for the man. I spent my afternoon in this state of repose until suddenly the door swung open and Mr. Kitt stomped through followed closely by Quentin. Their black expressions gave me to know their news was not good.

"Well? What happened?" I inquired innocently.

"What happened is the Magistrates refused to grant the Salvation Army police protection!" Quentin spoke with a fury I had not thought him capable of. "For all intents and purposes they told the Salvation Army it was their own fault, that they brought the assaults upon themselves and that they should consider themselves fortunate that the Magistrates were still going to allow them to rent the building for their meetings! There are men and women whose only crime is publicly proclaiming their love of God being assaulted in the streets and they just turn a blind eye to it all!"

"The way I see it, we had Buckley's chance from the start." Mr. Kitt grumbled. "We were dreamin' when we thought we might change their minds. But we won't go down easy, that's for sure."  
"Where's Lt. Smith? I thought he'd be with you."  
"He's with the other officers at the Barracks; they're planning what to do next. You'll have to give him my regards." Quentin answered.  
"Why? Are you leaving? But you only just arrived!" I protested, following Quentin up the stairs to his room.

"I'm sorry, Mina, but I have to go. If I can convince father to speak with some of his more advantaged friends about the events here, there is a chance we may be able to put enough pressure on the Magistrates to actually protect the Salvationists. But I cannot delay even one more day." he stated, as he packed his clothing into his trunk. "Were you able to find out what you needed?"  
"Yes, and at the same moment, no. But it may still prove valuable."

"I do hope so. Remember to write if anything changes. Oh, and speaking of writing, you've had a letter from Millie - it was at the door when we arrived." he said, handing me the letter from where it had been tucked in his waistcoat pocket.

"Thank you." I clasped the letter tightly to my chest. "I wish you did not have to go so suddenly."  
"I know." he regarded me tenderly with those soft brown eyes. "Take care, Mina, be safe."

"If you don't hurry we'll never reach the station in time!" Mr. Kitt bellowed.

"Hateful man." I spat. Quentin smiled,

"Farewell, Mina, and may God bless and protect you." he said, and disappeared, leaving only the fading impression of his lips on my cheek in his wake.


	8. Chapter 8

"Good Morning, Miss Moore!" Mr. Kitt's bright greeting fell upon it most ungrateful recipient. Did he not have his own living quarters? Or perhaps he was merely an incompetent cook (not that any inhabitant of this house might be accused of possessing a talent for cooking). Regardless, my patience with his boorishness was near its end - he could be certain another jovial morning hail would risk being the last he ever made.

"Good morning." I replied rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I descended the stair. "Is Lt. Smith awake yet?"

"I believe the better question is: Did he ever fall asleep?" Mr. Kitt answered sotto voce, nodding toward the black haired man seemingly occupied with his newspaper.

"I would wager the answer would be: No." I whispered in return.

"And liable you would wager correctly."

"I am able to hear you." Lt. Smith stated, without raising his head from the paper. "It is my eyes that are preoccupied, not my ears." Gathering my courage I approached the man,

"I was dreadfully sorry to learn the results of the Hearing. Will the Salvation Army no longer be marching?"

"Oh no," he replied, folding the paper into quarters. "We will march. We are pressed, but we are not yet crushed; and we will not be destroyed though we are momentarily struck down." Obstinate, impossible man! Could he not see that the Salvation Army was the author of its own destruction by continuing their parades? "Incidentally, I have been meaning to speak with you on an issue of some import. The Skeleton Army has become a good deal more dangerous since you first arrived and I find myself fearing for your safety. It is no longer out of preference that I make this request, but necessity as your host - if you find you wish to leave the house, for any reason, you must allow Mr. Kitt or I to accompany you. Many of these men who are coming in from out of town are acting without moral constraint or fear of consequence - it is far too dangerous for a woman to be walking the streets alone, or even in the company of other women." For certainly walking about in the presence of two known members of the Salvation Army would somehow lessen the danger! Did we not witness the results of keeping such company only this past Tuesday? I managed to hold my tongue as he continued, his steely blue eyes now locked with mine, "I did not tell you for fear it would frighten you, but there have been some... incidents... inwhich local women were... gravely injured by the Skeleton Army. I cannot risk the same happening to you." I nodded. I knew then; the dread in his eyes as he pronounced the words, the unmistakable notes of fear behind his normally steady tone - I had been wrong in my suspicions. Whatever his past might be, the ghoul of Blackpool had never been his title. No man would be so afraid of that which he knew to be himself.

"What of the charitable work?" I asked, my softer nature piqued from the shame of having suspected the man. He shook his head,

"There are so few of us now, and many of those who are left fear the ire of the Skeletons who will no doubt harass them, I am sorry to say we scarcely have the volunteers left to hand out bread."

"I know it's asking a good deal." I swallowed, "but might I volunteer?" A smile of genuine joy spread across his face, a singular thing I had rarely seen in my lifetime and never from the stoic before me, in that moment it seemed the weight of all his cares had left him at the suggestion of one volunteer. I could not help but feel some guilt at the impurity of my motives as I made use of this man for my own ends.

"We would be glad to have you, Miss Moore. Quite glad, indeed." he took my hand, shaking it fervently.

"When might I begin?"

"This afternoon, if you wish. Or tomorrow, if you have obligations."

"I believe today would be suitable."

"Then we shall go today. It's really quite a simple thing-" a knock at the door interrupted our felicitous conversation. Mr. Kitt, who had, until this moment watched us in sullen silence, sprang for the door. I overheard mumbled voices, my family name.

"Yes, she is here." Mr. Kitt answered gruffly. "Miss Moore, you have a telegram."

"Thank you, Mr. Kitt." I said, relieving him of his post.

"Are you Miss Philomena Moore?" the freckled young man in the spotless courier's uniform inquired.

"I am."

"This telegram arrived for you, the sender said it was urgent." he handed me the yellowed paper.

 _To Philomena Moore Stop_

 _Chapman Not In Wembley Stop_

 _Following Lead To Bletchley Stop_

 _Will Write Soon Stop_

 _Be Careful Stop_

 _James Stop_

Disgusted, I crushed the paper in front of the dismayed face of it's steward - did Roger truly think that final admonishment necessary? As if I was somehow oblivious to the danger presented by a man who had brutally murdered four women, all of whom shared only the characteristic of being blond, like myself (though, to my consolation a decidedly lighter shade)! The carrier still stood as if unsure what to do,

"Is there anything else?" I regarded him haughtily.

"Yes." he answered, digging in his satchel he procured a small envelope. "There's been a letter for you." I took it quickly, on the front I read my name in Millie's ornate script. I pressed the missive to my chest tightly.

"Oh thank you!" I handed the well confounded young man a token and bid him good day.

"What is it?" Mr. Kitt, forgoing all semblance of manners, asked.

"It is a letter from my dearest friend. If you'll both please excuse me." I rushed up the stairs, eager to examine my prize.

* * *

I sprawled myself across the small bed, more as a child might than a grown woman. It was with that childlike eagerness I read:

 _Dearest Mina,_

 _I received your letter only yesterday and intended to reply immediately, but then Freddy wished to show me a picture he had drawn and - oh where does the time go! We fare well in these warm summer days, Edgar believes the wheat crop will be the finest we've had in years. He has been quite busy as of late, it seems a shipment from the South of Africa has arrived early with quite a bevy of fine stones - the like of which Edgar claims he has rarely seen. He tells me there may be a number that could be of interest to the royal family. Can you imagine that Mina? Queen Victoria wearing one of our stones! I know, it is not proper to discuss business but I find myself so excited by the prospect that I simply must share it. I suppose you likely do not gain quite so much excitement from it any more (if you ever did, for I know you care little for those things which you call "shiny colored rocks of no note") but I am still so new to the trade. Edgar tells me that my excitement is adorable, but then, I believe he says that so often of my moods the sentiment has begun to lose its meaning. He and your father are in Southhampton as I write. Perhaps they may visit you while they are there._

And perhaps the moon shall fall into the Thames and serve itself upon crackers to all the poor of London, I thought. If he were alone, Edgar might visit, but my Father would not deign to participate in such frivolity - why travel fifty miles out of the way to visit the daughter you would see by Summer's end? It was needless expense. I continued to read:

 _Freddy has lately taken ill with a cold, though I am relieved to say it has been nothing more serious than a mere case of sneezes and sniffles - though it appears I may have caught it as well. It is fortunate you are away or you would likely have caught it as well. I do hope I will be on the mend soon for we are hosting a ball in a fortnight and I should hate to cancel. It is regrettable you cannot be there, it promises to be the most glorious of times - even Dinah will be in attendance! She has not been to a ball in years! I know she only does it so that I will cease pleading but I am glad of it regardless. I am certain it will be to her benefit and I know she is excited to see Freddy again - he was only just toddling last she saw him and now he's talking! Not well, mind you, but still it is thrilling every time he says a new word. I know, I do go on about him, but when you have one of your own you will understand._

Ah, Millie, the eternal optimist.

 _I do hope to have a letter from you soon. I have been hearing some rather unnerving reports out of Brighton in regards to Worthing and I can only hope they are rather greatly exaggerated. So please do write back to allay my fears. Are you enjoying the sea? I hear it is wonderful this time of year. It must be much quieter than the beaches of Brighton at any rate. Is your host treating you well? Were you able to attend dinner with the family who invited you? I know you are liable to avoid all such things but I do hope you did. And do tell me about Quentin's visit and give him my love. It has been far too long since he visited and I am keen to know how he fares. Do take care Mina,_

 _All my love,_

 _Millie_

I was at my desk, pen in hand, before I realized the herculean task before me. Allay her fears regarding the state of things in Worthing? And how might I go about doing that? I wondered chewing lightly on the end of my pen. I had scarcely seen the sea since my arrival - I had spent more time gazing at corpses than waves! And my host! Was he not part of the trouble? Excepting a pleasant visit from Quentin - and even that had some fairly alarming moments - how might I possibly tell her of all that was transpiring?

 _Dearest Millie,_

 _I regret hearing of your illness and pray your next letter will bring the news of your swift recovery. I do regret I should not be able to attend the Ball but do give my love to Dinah. I will not pretend all is peaceful in Worthing, but I am certain the reports from Brighton have rather conflated the issue. It is only a cadre of boys and layabouts harassing the Salvation Army when they march in public and little more than that. A four thousand member cadre. The beaches, so far as I have seen them, are quite lovely. Certainly they are far less crowded than those in Brighton! Do you recall last Summer when we visited and there was not even space enough to park our bathing machine for all the people! I have not yet taken a swim in the sea but I am certain I shall in the near future. Quentin returned home yesterday, so I will have to delay giving him your love until such time as I see him again. To answer the question you have not asked but I know to be burning within you: no, he did not propose. You may as well give up on the idea for it will not happen. We did attend dinner with the Shaw family - that is Quentin, Mr. Smith, and I - it was a pleasant enough evening-_

I crumpled the letter into a ball and dropped it into the wastebasket. She would recognize my deceit before the third sentence and would only be put to more worry for it. I sighed, replacing my pen in the inkwell. I would write, perhaps tomorrow, when my mind was not so troubled. As it was I could scarcely hold onto a thought before it had been usurped by another and another following that - rather like the Roman Emperors, I thought wryly and wished, for a moment, Quentin were still here for only he would appreciate the joke. There was nothing for it but to put off till tomorrow when perhaps the sun might shine a little brighter than it did today. I arose to return to the sitting room, but then thought better of it. Was I really ready to expose myself to the rough manners of Mr. Kitt again? I knew the Isle of Man to be isolated in nature but surely at least they must teach their children some semblance of propriety.

Instead, I allowed myself to have my first truly good look about the room searching for, I didn't know what, until I found it sitting in the drawer of the bedside table. The threadbare cloth of the novel had been bleached by the sun to a shade more reminiscent of yellow than representative of it excepting for a few darkened stains where fingers had held it so often as to forever leave their mark. I compared the spots to my own hands - the girl must have very small hands. I looked to the triptych that sat above, guarding the drawer. The first photo I knew to be Lt. Smith, though some years younger. His face was handsome, proud. Around his neck he wore the mark of his trade. In his youth he must have been quite the idol for the young girls, that he would choose an Irish woman must have been taken as almost an insult. The other side was graced by a lovely young woman, light hair pulled back behind a ribbon but loosely framing her unmistakably Irish face with its soft waves. Her piquant mouth was drawn in a peaceful smile, above it, a tiny nose sat between two great, gentle eyes, not unlike a does. This must be Smith's late wife. Between the two sat a small, dark-haired cherub of a girl no older than five years judging by the pebble-like teeth she showed. In face, she was much her mother, but in those dark eyes I could see the same willfulness of her father. If all I had heard of her were true, I should feel it a pity we did not have the chance to meet for we would likely be fast friends.

I returned, once more to the ancient tome, tracing lightly the title with my finger. The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Acton Bell. I smiled knowingly, I had read precious little of the Bell brothers, or, might I say, the Bronte sisters; and this book was entirely unknown to me. I had procured a copy of Agnes Grey some time ago, and knew that to be written under the same name - it was not the strongest book insofar as writing had been concerned, but proved a tolerable way to pass a few dreary afternoons until my father discovered it which led to its instant immolation and final rest among the ashes of such works as Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice, and any other such work as might promote an "unhealthy" view of a woman's place in the world. But today there was no pater tyrannos to object to my choice of leisure, I thought wickedly. I lay myself upon the bed and began to read.

"Miss Moore, would you like to take some lunch before we leave?" Lt. Smith's call tore through my reverie. Lunch? Was it noon already? I pulled my watch from the bag and checked, no, it was an hour after lunch! I tossed the book aside and ran down the stairs.

"I'm sorry, I lost all track of time!" I panted. Lt. Smith chuckled at what must have been the frightfully disheveled young lady before him. I winced, certain there would be commentary from that horrid Mr. Kitt, but none followed; looking around I saw no trace of the man,

"Has Mr. Kitt already gone?"

"Yes, some hours ago. He was required in the kitchen."

"That is good." I thought to myself before I realized I had spoken the words aloud. Lt. Smith regarded me with sympathy,

"I know you have not taken to Mr. Kitt, to one such as yourself he must seem terribly uncouth, but I assure you he is a hard worker and a kind man to those in need. He has served us well when few have seen fit to remain. I will not tell you to like him, but for my sake, if you would tolerate him for I do not know what I would do without his assistance." I nodded,

"I will try." Lt. Smith met my begrudging surrender with a smile.

"Well, you will not see your resolve tested today, if that is any consolation, Mr. Kitt has never been one to serve the food. His talent is less for the ministry and more for its support. I suspect we shall see little of him until the morrow." I suspect my relief was apparent to Lt. Smith who smiled in the quiet way of one who does not feel the need to speak his amusement as he fussed about the kitchen. He returned to the sitting area a few moments later with a cup of tea and a small plate of jam sandwiches which he offered to me before placing them on the table. I took one gratefully, nibbling it as Lt. Smith took his place opposite me, sipping from his teacup.

"Were you able to finish your letters?" he inquired, placing the cup on the saucer before him.

"No, I was - well, I found a novel and became distracted." His eyes danced with laughter though none did he loose.

"The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, I'm guessing." my look of surprise must have seemed to beg more information. "Bertha keeps very few novels about and, though I mean no offense by it, I doubt her Bible would have held your attention so long."

"No, it is too familiar a text to me. But I have never seen the novel before, I wasn't even aware the author wrote a second book beyond the shared works of poetry, where did she come by it?"

"It is very old, I bought it for her mother as a gift when we were courting."

"Seems a strange gift for a man to give the woman he intends to marry."

"Perhaps, but marriage is not a thing to be embarked upon lightly - she loved a man who loved the Lord before all else; I never pretended to her our lot would be anything less than inconstant for it would be led by Him who did not spare His own son." he shook his head. "She would not have it any other way, my Brigid. Her piety was such to put a poor sinner like me to shame." The man seemed to have lost himself in memories of a long ago time. He shook his head quickly, dispelling the images that danced before his far-off staring eyes. "But that is no matter. I do hope you enjoy the book."

"Yes, I've found it quite to my liking."

"You had best help yourself to another sandwich before we depart." he suggested.

* * *

I had in no way anticipated the amount of work that met me when I arrived at the barracks. By evening, I felt as though my arms might abandon, once and for all, the body intent on doing them injury - to say nothing of my feet! I was never meant for such labors, I knew this now, I accepted it as truth. Lt. Smith appeared to draw a certain merriment from my sufferings, exhorting me with various phrases that perhaps might have had the sound of encouragement but only served to make me wish to throw a loaf of bread at his head (perhaps I was more cut for the Skeletons afterall). I slumped against a wall as I watched the ladies begin the task of cleaning up. "You did well today, Miss Moore. I could not have asked for a better volunteer." Lt. Smith congratulated me.

"I believe I may have used up all my charitable nature in one burst." I answered, certain I looked a good deal worse for the wear.

"Would you like to stay for prayers after we clean the hall?" I gave him an exhausted, if pointed, look that very neatly conveyed such a question could not be serious. "I suppose it is about time we were getting you home." I nodded in agreement. Lt. Smith quickly located a woman wearing the blue uniform marked with a red square decorated with an "S" and two stars. "If you can spare me, I need to take Miss Smith home." he gestured toward the haggard, slumped form that was me. The woman nodded, saying something I could not quite overhear but guessed to be in the affirmative for he returned and ushered me toward the door. "It is best we go now, regardless, some of the Skeleton Army may be about after they have had their supper."

"That would be troublesome." I agreed, following his lead. "I doubt I would have the strength to do much more than glare at them."

"I have heard the glare of a Lady is as sharp as the claws of a lion." I stared at him; had he just made a joke?

"It is truly a powerful weapon, not to be employed lightly, for it can make a grown man age twenty years in a moment. But there is no need that we should test it." I yawned.

"I suppose that may have been a bit of a baptism by fire as it were. It was far easier when we had more hands for the labor. The need has not changed but the workers are few."

"The poor we should have with us always." I reminded him.

"At least until the return of the kingdom. But we shall do good while we can where we are."

"You may, but I believe I will need to rest." I replied, provokingly.

We had not walked far from the building when a shrill scream pierced the air. Without thinking, Lt. Smith and I raced down the alley to the small walkway that ran beside The King's Arms. There, a pale blue arm strung from the rail of a fire escape, leg to a barrel on the opposite side of the alley, was the body of a young woman, her golden locks cascading from her unnaturally tilted head, lifeless pale eyes staring vacantly at the sky. And before her stood Eliza Renwald, bucket fallen at her feet, screaming.


	9. Chapter 9

"Miss Renwood! Are you hurt?" I cried, running to the young woman. She shook her head, staring at the corpse, unable to speak. Lt. Smith, pulled a knife and rushed to cut the rope from which the young woman hung. Easily scaling the fire escape he began cutting the rope with a fury.

"Miss Moore, help me!" he called through gritted teeth as the knife slowly tore through the rope. Without need for further direction I wrapped my arms about the woman's body, the cold chill of death sinking into my own flesh. The rope snapped, for a moment she hung stiffly before sliding through my arms to the ground. Lt. Smith jumped over the rail, skipping the final stairs and ran to the woman, chafing her cheeks in what appeared an effort to rouse her though it was clear from those bloodless lips his efforts would be for not, "Mirabelle! Mirabelle!" he cried over and over.

"Lt. Smith. Lt. Smith!" I raised my voice attempting to break his hysteria. "George!" he finally looked up from the pale face of the woman to my own, his expression tragic. "Lt. Smith, she's gone. There's nothing more you can do for her." He ran an arm across his eyes.

"That is not true, I can still do one thing more." he took off his coat and gently placed it over the young woman's body. Brushing his hand over her eyelids he murmured, "May you rest eternal in the love of the Lord." He rose, still mournfully regarding the figure, her translucent blue eyelids giving the appearance of sleep to one who would wake no more.

"You knew her?" I asked, still holding onto Miss Renwood who had fallen to her knees in a swoon.

"Aye, her name was Mirabelle Hayword. She was a parishioner at my church as a child before she was led astray by a soldier. She'd had a troubled life but she was coming back to the faith! She was close with my daughter - Bertha will be devastated when I tell her!"

"I am sorry for your loss." was all I could muster.

"We should fetch an officer." Lt. Smith replied, staring into space as one benumbed.

"Yes, you had best find one. I will stay with Miss Renwood." Not that I had any option in the matter for the terrified woman clung to me unable to move. He nodded and quickly started down the alleyway. From further down the way he had gone I heard voices,

"What is it, George?" a concerned female voice intoned.

"There's been another attack. Get everyone inside the Barracks." Lt. Smith's clear voice ordered. Frightened voices blended with the sound of feet shuffling away from the scene.

"Tell me what happened, Miss Renwood." I was fortunate Eliza was far too shaken to wonder that I, who was a stranger to her, might know her name.

"I was just out back dumping my bucket when the door shut behind me, don't know how either, didn't feel a breeze or nothin'. So I was just takin' the way round to the front when-!" she seemed to lose her ability to speak, instead gesturing to the pale form lying beneath Lt. Smith's coat. From where I knelt I could see the red stripes stark against the whiteness of the flesh of her limbs, the faded purple mottling of bruises staining her skin. One hand lay exposed, unnaturally bent forward from being tied, it's back facing us, displaying for all the singular red stripes from where the knotted cord had formed them, where it had dug deeply into the soft flesh as she was tortured. I turned away, back to the face of Eliza who was, at this moment, so very alive. And so very terrified. She stared still at the fallen woman, her breath coming faster the longer she looked.

"Look at me, Miss Renwald. Look at me." I coaxed. Staring would only further brand the details of what was permanently burned into her mind, she was in no part a woman of strong mind - if she did not turn from the sight it would turn her to madness, I fear. "Eliza, look at me." I gently commanded. On hearing her name spoken she startled from her perverse trance, she turned an eye from the idol, "That's a girl." I clucked. "Just look at me. The police will be here at any moment. It will all be over soon." Pulling her eyes away from the horror in the street she grasped onto me as a child and began to weep. From behind us I heard the sound of heavy footfalls,

"Bloody Hell!" the sergeant cursed "Not another one." From behind him another officer wretched violently, clapping a hand over his mouth he rushed to the alley wall where he promptly discharged the contents of his stomach. Lt. Smith moved to help him. The sereant turned to Miss Renwood and I, "Which one of you discovered the body?"

"Miss Renwood did." I answered, tilting my head to indicate the sobbing woman who turned her red rimmed eyes upon the policeman.

"Are you Miss Renwood?" he asked, she nodded. "I'll need to ask you a few questions if you don't mind." she shook her head.

"I believe the experience has been a bit much for her." I apologized.

"And you are...?" Tact in the face of heinous murder was apparently not taught to the local authorities.

"Lady Philomena Moore, of N-shire. I am staying with Mr. George Smith at his residence on Salisbury."

"How did you and Rev. Smith come upon the scene of the crime?"

"We were just returning to his house when we heard Miss Renwood screaming so we ran to help and found the woman strung up across the alleyway from the fire escape." I pointed to the frayed rope end still hanging from the iron bar. "Mr. Smith cut her down."

"Was she wearing that coat when she was found?"

"No, the coat belongs to Mr. Smith." the officer's shoulders slackened with relief.

"I didn't think it right she should be exposed to the world." Lt. Smith interjected.

"Did you see anyone else when you arrived here?"

"No, only Miss Renwald." I answered. The sergeant strolled over to the rope still strung through a hole in the barrel, giving it a cursory glance.

"Is that all?" Lt. Smith asked. "If it is I would very much like to get Miss Moore home."

"Oh, quite right. No place for a Lady. If I have any further questions I will stop by later today."

"Thank you, sir." Lt. Smith nodded curtly.

* * *

"I am sorry you had to see such a terrible thing." Lt Smith finally spoke as we approached his house. So busy had I been contemplating the woman's death I had almost forgotten Lt. Smith walking beside me. It's all wrong! My mind kept repeating - all wrong!

"Yes, it was quite the most horrifying scene I have ever witnessed." I attempted to add a quaver to my voice so as to make the words sound more convincing - it was not even the most horrifying thing I had witnessed in a fortnight; and even that was truly only more startling when really pondered. Lt. Smith held the door open for me,

"If you would like, I can send for a coach to take your things to the Station. I know it is too late to make the journey to N-shire tonight, but you can still make the train for London." I stared at the man in confusion,

"What? Oh- oh no! I don't intend to leave! I just need a little time to collect myself is all. It was a bit jarring but I will be fine."

"I think you should go." he said, his tone steadfast. Hell's bells! I was going to have to conduct the remainder of this investigation from the hotel, wasn't I? I had no desire to dawn that itchy calico dress again - not too mention those clodhoppers! "It's becoming far too dangerous; I cannot guarantee your safety if you remain." A glimmer of hope!

"But you will allow me to remain?"

"I cannot fathom why you should wish to do so, but I will not turn you out."

"I would prefer to stay if you will allow it, I find the ocean air reviving - I am not ready to return to the mossy damp of the forests." Lt. Smith took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

"Then do stay. I shall be glad of the company." I passed through the door with Lt. Smith close behind. He moved to the kitchen, filling the kettle, "Would you care for some tea Miss Moore?"

"No, thank you," I demurred. "I believe I would like to be alone for a while." Lt. Smith nodded in understanding. In my room I pounced on the writing desk, words spilling from my pen onto parchment.

 _Dear Quentin,_

 _There has been another murder. I know this news is not unexpected considering the frequency of the others but Quentin, this one was all wrong - yet I am certain it was the same man who did her in! The woman was blond as were the previous victims but she was almost a decade younger than the youngest victim. Further, her injuries were far more severe: on the first victims the cut marks were long, almost intricate, but they were shallow as though he took pleasure in their making, the very design of them; but with this woman they were short and deep, as though done in rage. The bruising was much more severe as well and inflicted upon the face. She was stabbed in the back as the others but her blood had not properly drained from the wound - I am certain the wound was inflicted after she was already dead. I cannot be sure, as I did not get a close look, but I noticed what I believe were hand prints around her throat. Quentin, I believe the woman was strangled! But the strangest thing was how the murderer chose to display the body. Before he hid the bodies, but this one he strung across an alley by tying her to a second story fire escape and a rain barrel. What's more is that the woman who discovered her did so when the backdoor of her workplace shut and locked behind her, forcing her to walk around the building. I think the killer orchestrated the discovery of the body! He must have strung her up and then gone into the pub and waited for the maid to leave through the back door which he then shut and locked on her ensuring that she would discover his display. When her screams brought our attention he must have slipped out the front. From what I could gather from its appearance, the alley where the body was displayed is seldom used - if not for his forcing the maid to traverse it there is a chance the body would not have been found for hours, possibly even days. But then, why would he want it found just then? The hands were stiff to the touch but the arms still had some movement in them. When she was hung up she would not have been even two hours deceased for her hands were frozen in the position they hung from the ropes, all her wounds fresh - she was definitely killed today, likely sometime this morning. For the life of me I cannot figure out what his game is with this one. It's as though there has been something about these last two victims that is different from the first three. I wonder, what could have enraged the killer so much that he felt compelled to strangle the woman before he could complete his ritual?_

 _I sincerely hope James returns soon from Bletchley, I believe once we have the sister we shall finally be able to put this case to rest._

 _M_

I wrote the final letter with a flourish. I needed Roger here, of that I had no doubt. Whatever this man's motive, he desperately wanted his work to be acknowledged by the one man who would know it. Whatever game he was playing he wished to play it against Roger - he was not yet aware of his true opponent; but then neither was I. A name, unused for decades and little else was hardly an advantageous position. There was something I was missing! I knew it! Why these victims? And why Worthing if he sought attention? For surely, after this last murder, there could be no doubt attention was what he sought. Even if he were intending to use the Salvation Army skirmish with the Skeleton Army as a cover to enter town unnoticed, there were other cities at least as suitable, if not more so - this was hardly the only battleground in the war. If he truly sought anonymity the burgeoning tourist town would prove ideal, but if he wished for notice than would not London be far more ideal for his purposes? It was only by sheer luck I even noticed the connection to the Blackpool murders and sent for Roger... And then what about the age of the victims? Almost twenty years older than the Blackpool-

And there it was. "That's it!" I whispered to myself; standing up I attacked my journal, pouring over the notes until I found what I was searching for. I ran a pointed finger under the words:

"Penelope Carville, 16 years old, discovered tied to a chair in Mr. Chapman's room at the boarding house, severely beaten, multiple knife wounds on her arms and legs, hands and mouth bound." I read aloud. Ecstatic, I raised the book in the air; "The final victim! This is it, the missing piece!" There could be no doubt, Chapman must have uncovered information leading him to believe Miss Carville had taken residence in Worthing and he was making to finish what he had begun twenty years ago. His attacks were not random but rather he was taking women who were similar in age and appearance to what he recalled of Miss Carville. But then why this last victim? I began pacing the room, hand to my chin, the other perched below my elbow. She bore no true resemblance to the other victims aside from her blonde hair... her features had been minute, her blue eyes appearing massive in comparison - in face she was more French than English - the other women possessed more regular features, they might have been sisters. And what of her wounds? The deep slashes, the dark bruises indicative of strangulation? What was it this poor woman had done to invoke his wrath? Unless... what if she were not a true victim as the others? He had intended to kill her, I was certain, but if that had not been his intention in taking her nor in stringing her up? Still, I could not be certain. All I knew was that, were I correct, Miss Chapman was in the most terrible danger and Roger alongside; for Mr. Chapman was not killing for the sake of it - he was intending to murder all those tied to the case: his final victim from Blackpool and his traitorous sister.

"Miss Moore?" Lt. Smith's voice called from below, interrupting my thoughts. I walked from my room to the stair,

"Yes, Mr. Smith?" I returned. He stood at the foot of the stair looking upon me, bringing to mind the image of some Romeo gazing up at his Juliet - a strange association to be sure.

"Will you be having anything to eat before retiring?"

"No, thank you, but I'm afraid I have no appetite at the moment."

"Well then, I suppose I will bid you goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mr. Smith." He turned and then a thought seemed to strike him for he faced me yet again,

"Miss Moore, tomorrow I will be leaving early for the Barracks and I anticipate I shall be gone until evening. If you wish I can arrange for you to stay with the Shaw's for the day."

"No, thank you, but I should prefer to stay here, if you would permit it."

"Are you certain you would not prefer the company?" he prodded. I got the distinct sense it was he who would prefer I had the company, but on this he must be disappointed.

"No, I believe I would not. I have scarce made a dent in my book and would prize the opportunity to continue it in solitude." Lt. Smith nodded and turned back to the kitchen. What a stroke of luck! I had guessed he would be with the Salvationists tomorrow, but I had not dared to hope that I would gain the entirety of Saturday from it. I smiled as I shut the door to my room behind - I had no intention of staying in tomorrow; perhaps I might even search out a proper meal before the meeting at the Bonfire Boys club.

* * *

I walked down the street toward the address Russell had given, my strength renewed by the sizable supper of fish I had consumed. Self-consciously, I tugged at my trousers - Lt. Smith may have shared my height but I was at least an inch (if not two) under his girth an unfortunate fact I was now all too acutely aware of as I felt them begin their downward slide to my hips only moments after having been assigned their place at my waist. Had I not been so hungry perhaps I would have remembered a belt, but as it was I had not even the good fortune to come upon a piece of rope to tie it with. A faded white shirt hung loosely from my shoulders, tied at the neck with a dark blue scarf. I had never particularly noticed the weight of the hobnail boots, only their inelegant shape, today, having not fully recovered from my exertions yesterday, each step felt as though I had tied paving stones to the soles of my feet - a mile of walking left me shuffling them along not unlike a petulant child. I desperately longed for any surface I might rest a moment on. There will be chairs at the meeting, I consoled myself, passing a particularly inviting low wall behind which poked the bright yellow coronas of sunflowers. Sunflowers! I had nearly forgotten! I neatly beheaded one of the stalks, tucking the stem of the flower between the buttons that trailed down from my collar. I had been wholly wrong in my suspicion of Lt. Smith, prejudiced against him by his passion. If Chapman were in Worthing seeking out his unintentionally spared victim then I had made a serious miscalculation in my figuring. Had Chapman long occupied the town, the woman would surely have become aware of his presence and fled - the man must have recently come to Worthing. This could not be the work of imitation, Carville's name was known only to those who had investigated the case. If that were so then it was possible our murderer might be among the Skeleton Army, afterall. I had to be certain.

"Pip!" came the boisterous call from behind me, a heavy hand clapped upon my shoulder. Instinctively, I tensed at the familiar contact.

"You know I despise that name, Russell." I chastened the young Mr. Shaw who stood at my side. He grinned impishly, in a manner that was somehow both charming and, at the same time, utterly infuriating. I had forgotten quite how tall the young man was - I felt quite dwarfed next to him, my shoulders filling the role of armrest for those thick limbs.

"Glad you were able to make it to the meeting! I was worried you would abandon our cause for the sunnier prospects of Brighton."

"Sunnier prospects, but not for me, I'm afraid."

"Aw, you weren't able to get the job?"

"No, they thought me too slight for it - said I was too likely to become ill or injured." I replied, my visage blackened.

"If you like I could make an inquiry with my boss on your behalf?" Russell turned, facing me, brown eyes shining with genuine concern at my imagined plight; I found myself searching for an excuse,

"It is no matter, there was a man there looking for a crew to sail to the Cape of Good Hope in a few days."

"A few days? You were barely even here!" he protested.

"I'll have to make a point to visit when I return."

"I suppose that will have to do. At least you'll be able to stay for one Sunday of Salvationist drubbing. Now come on, or we won't get a seat."

He had not exaggerated the seating situation. We had not sat more than five minutes before all the chairs in the room had been claimed. More men and boys filed in, filing any remaining space until the hall was packed with bodies fighting to see the front where a young bronze haired man stood waiting. Just behind him, to his right, a line of chairs were filed by a selection of like young men. Russell jabbed me in the side with his elbow,

"That's Henry Marshall." he spoke over the dull roar of the crowd, pointing to the heavily freckled young man who stood at the podium. Henry, Eliza mentioned a sweetheart by that name, likely this was the man. "Those other men are the leaders of The Bonfire Boys Club, lately The Skeleton Army."

"A lot of people here." I remarked, scanning the room, I noted a few men aged at least forty. If my suspect were hiding amongst the Skeletons, he would definitely be in this room. The idea sent a thrill from my brain to my heart. Likely the man would have arrived early to ensure himself a seat to watch the proceedings. He would want to know the plans of the Skeleton Army so as to best ensure his chances of slipping away, unnoticed, during an altercation with the Salvationists - that would be the time when the eyes of the public were turned from the goings of town to the riotous meetings of the two factions: the ideal time to hunt for a new victim. I shivered, recalling the chase to the pier, not yet even a week ago. Had he taken the woman then? Who would have heard her scream over the din? Or, even had they, would they have thought anything of it? Held for four days, murdered on the morning of the fifth - Chapman had been careless, he had revealed his method. I heard laughter coming from my left. From my vantage point I could see a number of young boys crowded in the windows, fighting to gain a view of the activity. Henry noticed it as well, a self-satisfied smirk crossed his face.

"There'd be more if we could fit'em." Russell remarked, proudly.

"What-" I hadn't even formed the question when Mr. Shaw placed his finger to his lips,

"Shhh, he's startin'." Henry stepped up to the dull black wooden stand, slamming a gavel thrice against the surface, he began:

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, I would like to call to order this meeting of the Worthing Excelsior Skeleton Club."

"Here Here!" a cheer rose from the crowd. Henry waited while the cheers died down.

"First, a congratulations to all who were able to appear at the hearing on Wednesday. It may not have been a complete success but I guarantee you, that slut, Captain Smith, was shaking in her boots at the sight of us." a roar rose from the crowd at the mention of the Salvation Army Captain. "Gentlemen, I tell you we have them on their last legs! There is no one who will stand by them - not the police, not the magistrates, and certainly not the public who have borne their annoyances every Sunday - they have no friends in this town or in any other! For what man could support their perversion of the Bible or their corrupting influence on the otherwise good people of society? I tell you they have once respectable women cavorting with prostitutes - and you know the men don't mind such associations." he raised a salacious eyebrow to approving hoots. "They preach against imbibing in alcohol - the very drink Jesus, Himself created from water! They refute that we are the chosen elect for heaven - in clear defiance of the Church of England!" he paused, waiting for the din to subside. "Rather they would tell us we are the hell bound ones and that those who have shown through their lives God's destined path for them might instead attain Heaven. I ask you: what kind of perverse Heaven would that be?" The men hollered in reply. Through the cheers I spied my suspects, red in the face from the exertion of shouting. One pumped a fist into the air in his exuberance. Once more, Henry halted, waiting as the noise died down, "We have tried to be reasonable. We only asked that they keep their meetings inside. We told them that they were disrupting the tourists with their parades and displays. We brought our issues to them politely and they did not listen. So we attempted to persuade them to stop and still they persisted. We brought the issue before the magistrates and still they intend to continue ruining our businesses! You heard me correctly! I've had it on good authority that they still intend to march come tomorrow." I could guess who the source of this intelligence was, looking to my companion I could see him beaming at the honor bestowed upon him. "Our job is not yet done! I say this time we don't just settle for disrupting their parade - this time we take their flag!" He thrust a fist into the air, the crowd cheered. "And we burn it on the bonfire!" Russell leapt to his feet applauding, the roar of the men forced me to cover my ears. From my position, bent as I was in some misguided instinctive attempt to duck under the sound, I surveyed the crowd, most were standing crowing their support, while others sat shouting approval of the plan. Not one among them could be my killer. Chapman would have revealed himself either by failing to respond entirely, or his response would have been awkward, as one play-acting enthusiasm not truly felt. I allowed a smirk - if there were one lesson a lady learned to identify from her forays into society, it was when enthusiasm was disingenuous. Adjusting to the sound, I managed to pull my hands from their protective place on my ears and applaud; just in time for Russell to look down at me, and, my reaction affirming his, turned back, redoubling his applause. This boded poorly for the Salvation Army's march tomorrow.

* * *

I returned to the house on Salisbury just before the first star of evening took its place in the sky, feet being more dragged than walked upon. Exhausted, I trudged up the stairway into the diminutive room of Lt. Smith. Pulling the shirt over my head, I discarded it in a ball beside the dresser, the trousers were quick to follow. How men could ever find such garments comfortable was beyond me - I could understand the practicality if one found they must be about labor, but the skirt of a dress was far more useful, and, on these hot days, afforded a certain breezy comfort the heavy cloth of the trousers could not provide. I slipped my dressing gown over my shoulders, breathing a sigh of relief to have the smooth, coolness of silk embrace my skin. Tired as I was, I contemplated leaving the discarded clothes where they lay. No, he would undoubtedly wonder, and what explanation could I offer? Resentfully I picked up the shirt and trousers and folded them on the bed to what had approximately been their shapes when I had liberated them from the wardrobe and opened the drawers. I hid the trousers underneath another pair; the shirt I forcefully shoved as far back in the drawer as it could go. Against the smooth wood of the back of the drawer, my knuckles struck against something strange. Abandoning their hold on the shirt, my fingers sought out the source of this incongruity and quickly settled upon what felt to be a length of thin cord, my fingers traveled up the length, finding a knot in the rope - I yanked the cord from its hiding place. In my hand was a dark cord, not much more than a foot and a half in length, boasting a number of knots clustered in five groups of ten, a single knot between each set. At one end a large knot with held a frayed end indicating where the cord had once been attached at the other end, forming a circle. Below that five more knots ended in a large metal crucifix, almost the size of my palm. I dropped the rope. Desperately, I dug into the drawer pulling the shirts forward to reveal the backboard. Against the smooth wood four similar cords lay. I collapsed backward to the floor; where I sat, my hand resting on the first cord. I felt a growing nausea rising within me. Rosaries. He had bound their hands with Catholic rosaries. With trembling hand, I raised the cord, the crucifix dancing at level with my eyes. Bringing stark relief to the silver image of the savior, was a reddish brown substance caked within the facets of the mold. Vomit rose in my throat. There could be no matter of doubt - these were the bindings used in the murders. Hurriedly, I shoved the knotted cord into the back of the drawer and slammed it shut. I quickly made my way into my own room, closing the door behind and, finding no lock, I braced myself against the dresser and pushed it. As I did so I heard the clatter of metal, turning around I noticed the tryptic had fallen over. Righting it, something caught my eye. I picked the little tri-frame up for closer examination. There, wrapped loosely about the hands of the young woman, was a pale beaded rosary.


	10. Chapter 10

I sat with my spine pressed firmly against the dresser that stood stalwart between myself and the door. What was I to do? I had all the evidence I required to go to the police - the cords were hidden in his dresser, there was reason to believe the murders were symbolic of his own wife - but then, the case was circumstantial at best. I could no more prove that those were the rosaries which bound the women than I could that they had belonged to his wife. I ran my fingers through my hair until they met at the base of my skull. What was it that troubled me so? I heard the front door open,

"It's a bad way we're in, sir." A man's muffled voice floated up the stairs. I could not place it - it was neither Lt. Smith nor Mr. Kitt. "I don't expect we can hold out much longer."

"No," the defeated tone of Lt. Smith answered. "No, I suppose not. I wish-" his voice caught. "But it's not safe. We can't risk another woman being murdered by these ruffians."

"Aye."

"But then if we don't serve them, how many will die for want of a meal? How many with no knowledge of their savior - condemned to the depths forever by our cowardice?"

"It would only be for a while, just until the crowd disperses back to their homes. We can do them no good as we are; they're in danger every time they come to a meeting. You'll see, come Autumn all the excitement will be long forgotten and we can march again."

"But what of those poor souls in the meantime?"

"I suspect they'll have to shift the best they can. We can still help them from the Barracks, still go out and tell them the good news though our daily goings and doings. It's not as though we would wholly abandon them."

"But those are a poor substitute for the witness we give them by marching, by holding our meetings in the open where they might hear the gospel merely by passing near."

"George, they aren't able to hear the good news anyhow, with those Skeletons about."

"To see it then!" there was a moment of silence. "I know you speak sense, Donald, but I just can't reconcile myself to the idea of suspending our meetings. Christ did not cease His ministry when they attempted to stone him or drove him from the town. Not even in the face of death."

"But you are not Christ, George." the elder Shaw admonished.

"I know, it is only my pride speaking. I am not yet ready to surrender to the will of the mob."

"Nor are we, any of us. But there comes a time when we must see reason."

"I suppose it all comes down to tomorrow then. Perhaps God will inspire the magistrates to turn to our cause after all, or, at the very least, the constable. It would not be the first time He has inspired a leader to protect his people in the 11th hour."

"No, it would not be." Mr. Shaw's words of hope were belied by their funereal tone. "Well, we shall have a better understanding of His will tomorrow - there's no sense speculating what it may be before it is revealed. We can only trust it is to His good, in the end."

"Of course, you are right. God be with you, Donald."

"You as well, George." I heard the front door shut. Below the sounds of Lt. Smith busying himself in the kitchen, the clink of dishes and the metallic clank of the heavy kettle being placed on the fire telling of his purpose. Footfalls gradually grew louder as he climbed the stair. I could hear the floorboards before my room groan in protest under his weight. I held my breath as if he might somehow be able to hear my breathing, the pounding of my heart, through the door. I heard the dull rap of two fingers upon the door.

"Miss Moore," his voice called quietly. "if you are still awake, I am making tea." He stood, I knew, awaiting a response. None I gave, nor any indication I stirred at all. Finally, I heard the footsteps as they made their way back down the stair and into the kitchen. I sat, my shoulder blade impressed painfully upon the corner of the dresser, unable to force myself to move for fear of giving away my conscious state by some errant creak or scratch, even when I heard the soft snores of the man from the room beside mine.

* * *

I awoke still propped against the dresser, the dusky first rays of the sun only just trickling in from the window, motes of dust floating suspended in their beams. For a moment I attempted to collect myself - how had I wound up on the floor? For my life it seemed the strangest thing until I lifted my head, cracking it smartly against the corner of the dresser. I rubbed the sore spot, now I remembered, not that I needed such a painful awakening to my precarious position. With the dawn came a clarity the fear from last night's discovery had not allowed. How long had it been since terror had left me asleep against a door? There was a strangeness, a clue I could not place or recall, yet one that told me Lt. Smith was not the murderer I should believe him to be though all evidence indited him. I knew it, somewhere in another lifetime it was there begging to reveal itself, a message adrift in a bottle floating helplessly on a sea of memories. Dinah would tell me to trust my intuition; that the good Lord gave women such a gift for a reason and it must not be ignored when it so strongly pulls. Of course, she and Quentin would also tell me I was mad for even suspecting the man, I allowed with a crooked smile. Still, I was certain of one thing, the targets were not nearly so random as they had appeared and, at the moment, I was not among them. If the villain were truly Lt. Smith, and the more I allowed that thought room in my head the more certain I was of its veracity, I was now aware of it and would be on my guard. And were it not, I would soon find the culprit. But, either way, I should not prove terribly effective in my duties hiding behind a dresser. Pulling my stiff body up, I felt rather the fool - what would Roger say if her were to come upon me situated such? If I truly believed I were a spy the equal of the famed Lord Bond, then it was time I began behaving that way. Performing my toilet proved a greater chore than usual, my joints protesting the cruelty of having been forced to sleep in such a manner, but activity soon loosened them. There was much to do today.

* * *

"I would advise you not to come to meetings today." Lt. Smith said sadly, as he placed a plate of eggs and toast before me. Fried this time. Well, at least there was jam.

"Do you expect some trouble?" I absently inquired, spreading jam liberally across my toast.

"Aye, possibly more than just some."

"That sounds rather ominous. Is that why you cancelled the early meeting?"

"I fear you have guessed the reason exactly. So I ask that you would stay in today, and don't open the door to anyone but myself or another officer." he looked at me as one who half expected to never return. I wished I could offer him some words of consolation, some assurance that the Skeleton Army only meant mischief, not explicit harm. But then, the fire in their eyes last night - if violence were to begin it would certainly be taken up by the lot of them for they had nothing but a single mind between them and that mind was keen for blood and fire. "Promise me that you will. I cannot worry for your safety as well as my own. No matter what were to occur today I could, at least, have the comfort of knowing you were safe." He took my hand in both of his, his pleading eyes met mine, shining in their desperation. I marveled at this man. Still, though he feared so for my own life, was he willing to go and risk his own on what, even I would call, say essentially a fool's errand. "Promise me." he repeated somberly.

"I promise." I had no intention of honoring this promise for more than the three minutes it would take for him to get far enough ahead to not realize he was being trailed, but if it would bring him some peace to believe it I saw no reason to deny him.

"Thank you." he released my hand. It felt warm, moistened by his own. He was more afraid than he would admit. Discreetly, I wiped my hand on my napkin - were he a murderer he certainly was not a particularly insensate one. He feigned a smile and we returned to our breakfasts.

Take care, Miss Moore." he called as he joined Mr. Kitt and Donald Shaw who waited just outside the door, having arrived only moments ago.

"You as well, Lt. Smith. I will pray for you."

"Thank you." a weak, yet genuine smile, passed over his lips. He turned to leave but thought better of it, coming back to me, he placed a light kiss on my forehead, his blue eyes intent on mine, "Remember, do not open the door for anyone but myself or an officer. Should it be required, there is an envelope in my desk addressed to Bertha." his voice caught. He turned and was gone. My hands flew to my face, attempting to cool the burning fire on my cheeks. Not wanting to be directly spotted; I hooked my umbrella over my arm, strolled to the back door, and, counting to ten, I swung it open.

A strong sea breeze whipped across my face warning of later showers, though the clouds indicated such warnings to be impotent. When this case was over I sincerely hoped to take a week holiday in one of these coastal towns. I strode through the backyard easily vaulting the low wall that separated it from its neighbor. "Oh hells bells." I groaned as I noticed I had crushed a stand of marigolds underfoot. I hadn't noticed before that the neighbor had quite a proclivity for gardening, but now I found myself carefully picking through a labyrinth of flowering plants. By the time I was through, Lt. Smith and his cadre were nowhere to be seen. "Blast it all." I cursed under my breath, hurrying to make up for lost time. The meeting would not be until ten, it was only just now nine thirty; even if they were lost to me I could recover them at the barracks. I made swift work of the road, coming to the intersection with Shelley. Looking left, I saw them only a block ahead of me - they must have opted to meet with the rest of the Shaw clan on Gratwicke rather than going by way of the barracks. Now sure of their path, I turned down Crescent. I had waited some time, cloaking myself in the shadows afforded by the alley beside the Rose and Crown, before I saw the first of the boys running pell mell down around the corner from New St. - I recognized his face as one of those who had strained to see above the windows at the Bonfire club meeting. My heart sickened - the child was serving as a scout. I had sincerely hoped the Bonfire Boys were all talk, but it now appeared we should not be so lucky; they intended conflict and conflict would be had. A few moments later a small knot of blue clothed women and men walked into view, nervously scanning their surroundings before turning onto Gratwicke. I recognized one, a cadet - Hartnett, I believed - but the other three were strangers to me. Anxious, I followed behind them. Already, it seemed rowdies were melting out from the shadows into the streets. It felt as though we were being swallowed in the black clouds of a gathering storm ready to loose its rage upon the Salvation Army. I redoubled my step, less intent on following those behind me than getting out of this street before I was caught in their crush. Only a handful of minutes passed before I was able to make out Lt. Smith's sharp features from another gaggle of blue and red outfitted beings as I approached the park, the towering Mr. Kitt at the rear. Lt. Smith raised a hand to halt the party as they approached the corner, he took a handful of steps ahead, peering down the street, before he waved them to continue. I ached to make my presence known to him, to warn him of the impending danger - but my hands were bound! How could I reveal what I knew without also revealing myself? I made out another figure, just behind Mr. Kitt - not fully obscured for his own size. It was Russell Shaw! He was in plain clothes but was undoubtedly with the party. His appearance boded far worse for the situation than any other could have. Fear for his relations must have compelled him to their protection! How great must the threat be that he would feel such a need? There could now be no doubt, he expected violence from his friends. I quickly concealed myself behind a stand of trees.

I heard the strains of that dark song, chanted more than sung by the crowd bearing down on the civilian soldiers, well before I could make the ominous words that chilled me to the bone:

We want disturbance and mob law  
Far, far away

It was old Booth who declared the war,

Far, far away,

Things have come to a dreadful pitch,

And we have no means of getting rich,

We'll drown the Army in a ditch,

Far, far away.

The dreadful force of at least two hundred men surrounded the gathered Salvationists. They looked as scared rabbits, ready to break and run at the slightest provocation. Russell placed his arm around his grandmother and pulled her tight to himself. The flag bearer nervously rose the banner,

"Form ranks soldiers!" a woman's voice pierced the air. The Salvation Army gathered into their procession formation and began to march in the direction of Montague Hall. The Skeleton Army pressed in on them, pushing and jostling their rivals as the Salvationists attempted to walk through them. They had not even reached crescent before the cry went out,

"Grab the flag!" The Skeleton Army broke upon the Salvationists with a fury. Fists flew, it seemed the little army had been enveloped by madness. A blow to the face felled Lt. Smith, who was then borne up by Mr. Kitt. Russell Shaw stood, momentarily baffled, until a man (rather accidentally) fell hard onto his Grandmother, causing the elder Mrs. Shaw to cry out in shock. I watched, my feelings a combination of marvel and horror, as Russell threw the man into the crowd. The man appeared equally stunned by the assault from his own countryman who now tossed his former colleagues about as easily as if they had been sacks of flour. From my vantage point I saw the banner proclaiming "Blood and Fire" dip and wave as a force of six men battled fiercely over possession of it. It dipped again, disappearing into the mob. The pole rose again, its banner stripped from it, Henry stood waving the pole, grinning madly with glory.

"We may not have gotten the flag, but we have the pole!" he exulted. A loud hurrah rose from the crowd. I saw the telltale uniforms of the Salvationists as they managed to extricate themselves from the violence, escaping in the direction of Montague Hall. The Skeleton Army members laughed as they watched the last of their enemy flee.

The mob again took up their mocking song led by Henry who held the flag pole high as he led his parade of degenerates down toward Montague St.,  
"They tried hard to lock us up,

Far, far away,

The Bench told them to try their luck,

Far, far away.

The row they did themselves provoke,

For their processions were no joke,

We wish they'd disappear like smoke,

Far, far away.

Where is a Bobby to be found

Far, far away,

They say he's sent upon a round

Far, far away..."

And where were the police anyhow? Not wishing to overtly protect the Salvation Army I might be persuaded to understand, but they should at least be present to restore order. They were effectively turning control of the town to this violent rabble. I waited until the last of them had departed down the road at the tail of their ignominious parade before leaving my hiding place. I trotted the short distance to Lt. Smith's home, still aware of the Skeleton's song ringing through the town, hopeful that he had gone with the rest to Montague Hall - I did not wish to bring on him further concern if he came home to find me disappeared without a trace.

The first star of evening hung in the sky before Lt. Smith arrived home with Mr. Kitt at his side. His face was bruised from the earlier blow, but not near so much as his spirit. I looked to Mr. Kitt who understood my unspoken query,

"We've been confined to the Barracks."

"For how long?"

"I can't say for sure. It went poorly today." I nodded not wanting to prod the poor man's wounds with further questions. Lt. Smith silently walked to the kitchen and began to fill the kettle,

"Damn it all!" he ejaculated, slamming the kettle onto the metal stove. Mr. Kitt and I gaped in disbelief at his sudden display. "I'm sorry," he collected himself, running his hand over his face. "I'll be in my room." he said and, without another word, he walked up the stair. I heard the loud slam of his door and then nothing more.

"He's had a bad day of it."

"What happened?" I asked, replacing the kettle on the stove. While I detested Mr. Kitt, at this moment I wanted nothing more than the company of anyone who had been at the melee. And I suppose I was thankful to him for aiding Lt. Smith.

"What happened is they were lying in wait for us, took our flag pole - wasn't nothin' we could do to stop it." the man replied, falling heavily onto the sofa. "We managed to get to Montague Hall, tried to hold services in there, but when we left they came after us again - attacked one of our boys, jest a kid you know, near tore his uniform off him; if it hadn't been for the intervention of a bystander who knows what might have become of the boy! George is taking it mighty hard, but I don't see there was much choice in the matter. It's not like it's over, just stopped for a bit till they go home." Through the open window the strains of a Skeleton hymn could be heard. I peered out into the growing night to see three young men staggering about singing poorly of their triumph. They stopped before the house and seemed to whisper before one of them flung a bottle in the direction of the front gate slurring,

"This one's for you Reverend Smith!" The pathetic missile did not even clear the street before it burst on the paving stones. Its mark was irrelevant, the other two members of the party congratulated the man as though it were some great accomplishment (I would wager the greater accomplishment was that he was able to remain standing at all given his condition).  
"I take it the police have declined to take action?"

"Police? If any were there it was on the side of the Skeletons." he grumbled. Serving the tea, I took a seat across from the man and sipped the piping hot concoction. It was in need of cream, but I lacked the will to retrieve it. Mr. Kitt took a rather large gulp, "Ahhh" he sighed, loudly. "Nothing like a good cup of tea to bring the life back into you."

"I wonder if Lt. Smith would like a cup?"

"I wouldn't chance it right now, Missy. Give him a little time." We sat, drinking our tea, in a most uncomfortable silence. Finally, finding the lacking conversation intolerable, I broached, what I believed to be, a rather innocuous subject;

"How long have you lived in Worthing?"

"Maybe three years now, maybe four. Don't exactly remember - time goes faster when you get to be my age."

"Yet you are only a first year Cadet?" Self-conscious, he looked at the single red bar on his shoulder.

"Very perceptive, aren't you? Yes, I joined the Army after the declaration of War went out. Afore then I never gave much thought to it, you know?" I nodded as if in agreement.

"Is that when you came to know Lt. Smith?"

"About then."

"You have known him quite some time, how does he strike you?"

"Fancy him, do ya?" the accusation brought the rose to my cheeks, not for its truth but rather its bluntness. "Well, I'd look elsewhere, Missy. He'll never be tied to none but the memory of his wife. Suppose he made her into something of an idol for himself. Sorry thing to see a man waste the best of his years alone. But he is a good man, quiet, keeps to himself a bit much. Kind. Always a great friend to women in need - particularly the blonds, like yourself, I think they remind him of his wife. But I shouldn't tease you so and get your hopes a flowing. When I met him I was jest a no account laborer, drinking away my pay with the lot of them. He took me under his wing as it were. Never had much to speak for before I joined. Now I have a proper room, a uniform, a position, a purpose to my life. A man can't survive without a purpose, you know."

"You were a laborer before then?"

"Dock hand mostly. Odd jobs here and there." A fitting career, it was no great leap to imagine the man loading and unloading ships. "Not much work on the Island, never was, so I come here."

"Do you ever miss your family?" He made a dismissive sound,

"Not much there to miss. My father died when I was just a boy."

"What of your mother?" His eyes narrowed, staring, not at me, but beyond as if I had conjured some villainous spectre behind myself with the words,

"No, I don't miss her in the slightest. Would that she have died, rather than him. Nagged him to death, she did. Nearly caught me as well. She was a worm, always wheedling, striving, smiling while she consumed your very heart and left your mind just a husk for her to lay her eggs in that they might hatch and make you the same as she." I found myself very eager to end this conversation.

"Well, it is getting quite late, I suppose it is time for bed. Mr. Kitt, it is always a pleasure." I rose, offering a quick bow of my head. He caught my hand in his painful grip and lifted it to his eyes which looked into mine with a meaning that seemed more menacing than tender,

"No, Missy, the pleasure has been mine." he pressed his lips to the unsteady, white knuckles. "Take care to watch out for yourself." he whispered, then followed it loudly with, "Tell George I will pop by tomorrow afternoon." he said with a wave as he shut the door behind him. I stood, stunned, by his display, not quite sure what to make of it. He may have meant well but his words had only further implicated his friend. Had he meant to warn me? I could not comprehend Mr. Kitt, and, in truth, I had no desire to seek a greater understanding of him. I gathered the dishes, taking them to the sink to be cleaned. Above I heard the creaking of someone pacing about. Whatever part of my mind that suspected him of villainy could not sustain when countered with such terrible pity. My heart was rent for the poor man, alone upstairs, with his violently dashed dreams. I poured the remainder of the water in the kettle into a teacup.

"Lt. Smith?" I called gently rapping at the door. There was no answer. "I brought you a cup of tea." I heard footsteps, the door opened, revealing the pale face of Lt. Smith. His bruise had grown darker, but it was his eyes, rimmed red, which arrested me.

"Thank you, Miss Moore." he took the saucer, managing something of a smile. "God bless you." he began to shut the door,

"Lt. Smith?" I rushed.

"Yes, Miss Moore?"

"I was wondering if we might go to the seashore? I have not yet had a chance to see it. Perhaps, we might even visit the castle Arundel?" he seemed to waiver at the idea. "It might be beneficial to get away from town for a time." I added, my motive now completely transparent. He thought for a moment, then smiled,

"Well, I suppose you have been rather isolated here since you arrived - I have not had much of a chance to be a proper host to you. We may be able to get away on Thursday, if that would be acceptable to you. It will take all day, we won't arrive home until nightfall." I nodded,

"I look forward to it, Lt. Smith."

"I as well, Miss Moore." his face now noticeably more cheered than a moment ago, he shut the door. I fell backward against the wall, hand to my forehead - What on Earth had I done!

It was a foolhardy risk, I knew it even as I was asking. But then, he had seemed so very sad. It seemed my pity for the man had overwhelmed my good sense. Certainly, the idea had positively effected him. But now I was to spend the day alone with a man who very well may have murdered five women! And I might be joining their ranks come Thursday night as penitence for my tender-hearted ways. "Be careful" Roger had warned - so full of care was I! I shook my head in disbelief at my own idiocy - why not just walk right into the Lion's Den wearing a Sunday roast? And where was the man anyhow? Off in Bletchley taking his own good time reporting back. Most probably enjoying a drink at the pub while I toiled away in mortal peril! My rage burned against him - infuriating man! I slipped into my own room, shutting the door with more force than was required and leaned against it. Lt. Smith would wonder at the noise. And why should that concern me one way or another? What did I need? I began pacing the room. I needed the identity of the fourth woman. And even more than that I needed to find Miss Carville before the killer did. The killer? Why could I not reconcile the notion of George being the murderer? I had discovered the cords in his dresser myself! It was easily enough evidence to go to the Constable with. Yet, I was hesitant. Was it for want of more definitive proof? But then what could be more definitive aside from finding him over the corpse of a freshly murdered woman? He was familiar with the victims (but for the fourth one of which we could not be certain), the final one in particular - which might account for the greater violence in the murder. Even his own friend seemed to implicate him. From any angle the pieces of the puzzle appeared to fit together, but, when tried - gaps appeared. The fit was not proper - it was too convenient. Perhaps my tongue had, once more, acted to my best interest. A day trip to the shore would provide the ideal opportunity to observe the man, speak with him - for, in truth, I scarcely knew him. To be sure, this might prove the best opportunity to uncover whether or not he truly was the Blackpool killer.


	11. Chapter 11

I awoke to the haunting darkness of night giving the room an otherworldly quality. I couldn't guess what had roused me, whether a nightmare or else some outside noise, but whatever it had been all trace of it disappeared in the cool breeze blowing in through the window. I breathed deeply, scenting the sea on the air, there was a dampness to it, a chill. Now I heard it, the patter of rain on the window. I turned onto my back to listen to the dull murmur. I had long loved the lullabye of rain, the sound of the wind as it rushed against the house - I snuggled into my blanket, enjoying its warmth. Perhaps it was a bit too hot, I felt an uncomfortable wetness on the back of my neck, a stifling heat about me, as I became more aware of the world my body inhabited. "Best to cool down a bit, I'll never get any sleep if I'm this hot." I thought as I threw off the blanket. I walked to the window watching the jeweled reflection of the street lamps dance on the rain drops. There were still some people walking about despite the late hour (surely it must be near midnight by now) shoulders bent against the rain, women with shawls pulled over their heads quickened their step as a torrent of rain strengthened suddenly. Looking out into the yard I saw the glow of light coming from the downstairs window. Had I forgotten to extinguish the lamp in my distracted state? I gently turned the door handle so as not to alert my neighbor with its telltale click and padded quietly to the stairs. The shadows below seemed to dance in the lamplight - or was there someone below moving about? I knelt down on the staircase and listened.

"Father what am I to do?" It was George Smith's voice! "I am lost, without direction. I know it was you who brought me to the Salvation Army - but for what purpose? I might have had the same impact on souls had I remained in the ministry. Hmpf. _I_ might have. Always wanting to make myself greater and you lesser, am I not? And with no evidence to the former yet I am inclined to believe it. Lord my heart breaks for our ministry! Was it not the right time to declare war? Did we fail to follow your promptings? Or is this meant to test our mettle that we might come back stronger through the testing? Or are you calling us from the front lines to another battlefield? Oh Father, I just don't know what I am to do; where am I to set my foot next? Am I even watching for your lamp or am I stumbling blind in the night - claiming I can see perfectly well under my own power. My word is not light - it has no power to light the way of any man! We are called to be the light of the world but that light that is within us is your own fire. Without your light, all that is within me is darkness even though I might insist that I shine brightly as a blinding glare. Father, I confess I have trusted in my own abilities and not you - I have put my faith in man over my faith in the almighty - subdue my prideful heart and make it a heart for you! Father, you know the troubles that have beset this town, I pray that you would protect my daughter as she assists with the work in London, and for my sister, Robert, and Jim for their health and their ministry. Lord, help me to be a witness of your charity to that young woman you have sent as my ward. I pray that whatever purpose you have in bringing her into this house would be fulfilled. Please protect her from harm and danger. She has been a boon to me in the absence of my daughter, and I thank you for that." I flushed crimson at his earnest prayer. As I listened he continued to list names and families and to call down blessings upon them until suddenly, something he said caught my attention, "And Father, I ask that you would be with Miss Hayword's family in this dark time and the families of all the victims - I cannot begin to fathom the depths of their pain." he broke off. A moment later, he walked to the kitchen to put the kettle on. I slowly stood, still not making a sound, "Miss Moore, would you care for a cup of tea, since you're up?" I was caught! How long had he known of my presence?

"Yes, if you would." I answered, more loudly than was required.

"I suppose the thunder must have woke you?"

"Was there thunder?"

"Up until a score of minutes ago."

"That must have been it, then."

"Will you be taking your tea here or in your room? I can prepare a tray if you wish."

"I'll have it here." I replied, taking a seat on the sofa.

"If you don't mind, I'll join you."

"As you please." He served the tea, handing me a cup. "A spoonful of sugar and a dash of cream, if I recall correctly." I raised my eyebrows,

"You have an excellent memory, Lt. Smith."

"It serves on occasion." he answered, sitting opposite me on a faded old green armchair, he took a sip from his tea, "It is a good woman who doesn't interrupt his man during his prayers. You'll make a good wife for Quentin, when the time comes." Had I been hot before I was now burning, but I chose to ignore the suggestion,

"When did you realize I was there?"

"I heard you from the hallway. It is easy to forget with her away and you unacquainted with her, but I did raise a daughter in this house - there is no footstep so soft I am not aware of it." there was that suggestion of a smile, the twinkle in his blue eye.

"I didn't mean to eavesdrop on you. I thought I had left the lamp on and then I heard you..."

"And it is hard to turn away from a conversation once it has your attention."

"It seems I truly have imposed on you at the worst possible time."

"Yet who knows whether you have come to the kingdom for such a time as this." he murmured.

"Pardon?"

"It's nothing, just an old piece of scripture." You can have no idea how correct you are, I thought to myself. He drained the cup, "Well, I believe it is well past time that we were in asleep. Have a good night, Miss Moore."

"Goodnight, Lt. Smith." I bade him, finishing the last of my tea.

Monday morning passed with little incident but for an unpleasant (though blessedly brief) visit from Mr. Kitt, ostensibly to see how his mentor fared though he spent the great majority of the time attempting to draw my attention from my novel until, finally, I excused myself to my room. I heard the door announcing his exit shortly thereafter. Lt. Smith gave a knock on my door,

"He's gone."

"Thank you."

"I will be visiting the Shaw's for lunch, they would enjoy seeing you if you wish to come."

"No, thank you. I'm feeling a bit tired."

"Then I will be home before supper, take care." I was glad to have the house to myself today, for today was the day I would discover whether Gilbert - fool that he was - managed to pluck up the courage to seek out Helen and, if he did, would she still accept him now that her brute of a husband had passed? It had taken all my willpower not to skim the final few chapters. I knew the tendency of the authoress but then, Catherine Linton had not been won by her adoring narrator, nor had Lucy Snow enjoyed a happy ending (though that might only be speculated) - the sisters could be as cruel regarding love as they could be miraculous. The beleagured Gilbert had only just arrived at the wedding chapel, looking quite a fright from unceasing travel when a knock at the door startled me from the cold snows of winter into the stifling mid-July heat. I went to the door, peering out the window at the tall, handsome man (still boyish of feature despite being scarcely a few years younger than Lt. Smith were the lines on his face to be believed in their testimony - not deep but present even when expression didn't call upon their creation), impeccably dressed, standing at the doorstep.  
"Good afternoon, Mr. Hartnett." I greeted him, opening the door. "What brings you by today?"

"Thank you, I was wondering if Lt. Smith were about?" he said, removing his bowler hat.

"No, he is dining with the Shaw family this afternoon - was he expecting you?"

"No. I just happened to be passing and there was a piece of business I wished to discuss with him. I thought I might have some luck, but apparently this is not my day."

"Well, he will be home by evening if you would care to wait?" I offered.

"No thank you." he turned, about to place the hat back in its position but seemed to think better of it and turned once more to me, "I know this is somewhat forward, but would you care to accompany me for lunch in town today? I imagine you have not had much opportunity to see the town with all the excitement about and George gone on Army business." He smiled in a way I supposed was meant to be charming, as though that might somehow obviate his presumption in asking such a thing of a woman he was only just barely familiar with. I was in the midst of a very important moment and not inclined to be interrupted - not with so few pages left. My stomach gave me a painful warning. Well certainly there was food here... perhaps a slice of bread with butter... there might still be some jam... it all sounded despairingly dismal once considered. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend." Cadet Hartnett replaced his hat. "If you'll excuse me."

"No!" the image of my fine lunch walking out the door perhaps intensified my desperation. "I'm sorry, you merely caught me off guard. Thank you for your invitation, I would be glad to accompany you. Just give me a moment to get my things."

* * *

We strolled down Montague St. past a slew of fine little shops and establishments now familiar to me from my surreptitious sojourns but as of yet I had not ventured in to any but the grocery. "Are there any shops you might fancy looking into?" Hartnett asked, genially. I managed to smile back despite the growing unrest in my stomach,

"Not at the moment."

"Well, if anything does catch your eye, do be sure to stop me so you might have a look."

"At the moment, I believe I am more interested in dining than shopping." He laughed at my quip,

"You don't leave anything to mystery, do you? I've never known a Lady to admit she might be hungry."

"Then you have had an accurate sampling. Though I wonder how you've had the opportunity to speak freely with any." I returned his barb with one of my own.

"In my youth I was acquainted with a number of them, my father was a steward, you see."

"And you did not follow in the family business."

"No, I'm afraid I had my own designs on my future that were rather in opposition to his." stretching his slender form back he turned his tanned face to the sun, eyes closed, as if enjoying its warming rays upon his face. "Not that I regret my decisions in the least."

"What did you do?"

"I was in the royal army, if you can believe it. Spent near eighteen years of my life in the service of the Queen in Africa."

"Why did you leave?"

"I suppose the Boers took all the fight out of me. Too many friends lost, and I'm getting on in years - I couldn't keep fighting wars forever."

"And yet here you are." He laughed,

"And yet here I am, in the midst of another war. Though it is, at least, my own this time. Ah, here is the place." He gestured to the familiar black casement windows, so opposite the pale facade, of the Rose and Crown tavern. "I know it's likely not the sort of fare you're used to but I will swear to heaven and earth they have the best fish and chips in town."

"With such fervent testimony to its quality, I believe I have no choice but to sample for myself to judge the veracity of your claim." He held the door as we entered the public house. The establishment felt at once cramped but not so much as to be suffocating. The walls were fashionably papered and above massive wooden beams lined the ceiling giving the place a rustic appearance. Mr. Hartnett pulled a chair out from a nearby table and gestured for me to sit.

"Now, as I recall, you arrived in town a fortnight ago?"

"Yes, two weeks this Thursday. It feels more like a month since I arrived."

"I would imagine. Two glasses of port, please." he raised two fingers to indicate the amount to the waitress. "There's been-"

"If I could have a cup of tea?" I interrupted. "I've never been especially fond of wine."

"That is because you have never had the wine here. You may be certain they have one of the finest cellars in Worthing." he turned again to the waitress, "Two glasses."

"But isn't port wine rather sweet? It seems an odd pairing."

"It may, but you must trust me - it combines well with the salty flavor of the fish." The idea still sounded repulsive to my palate; my disgust must have shown on my face for he continued, "If you find it disagrees with your tastes I will not object to your switching to tea. I only ask that you allow it a chance."

"If I must." I finally acquiesced with an exaggerated sigh.

"I insist." he smiled winningly and nodded to the woman who appeared relieved the matter was finally decided. "As I was saying, there's been a quite a bit of excitement lately, if you would call it such."

"Seems a word that does not do justice to the events."

"No, certainly it does not. I would imagine it has been a rather large shock to you."

"If you are asking whether I am accustomed to such happenings, I assure you I have never seen the like." The waitress set two glasses of the deep burgundy wine before us. I took a sip, instantly crinkling my nose from its syrupy sweet taste.

"I believe the lady and I will have the fish and chips," Mr. Hartnett threw a glance at me which I answered with a nod to signify I did not object to his choice this time. "Thank you, Ethel." The waitress smiled at his acknowledgement and walked back to the kitchen,

"I take it you know her?"  
"Worthing is not so large a town that one does not come to know a number of people from all walks."

"I guessed you were familiar as a regular patron."

"That as well." he grinned, sheepishly.

"Do correct me if I am wrong," I said, taking another sip, "but I thought I had heard members of the Salvation Army abstained from all alcoholic drink?" His grin only widened,

"I'm afraid you have caught me. I suppose it is my greatest weakness that I still feel the urge to indulge in the occasional glass, an old habit from my military days. If you'll forgive me my hypocrisy I will endeavor to make greater efforts to mend my ways."

"It is of little consequence to me whether you adhere to the tenets of your faith or not, it was merely an observation." I raised my brows coquettishly.

"I daresay Ladies are always full of those."

"What is that?"

"Observations. Little moments to prod and question in order to throw a gentleman off his balance."

"Have I thrown you off your balance, Mr. Harnett?"

"Kenneth, if you please."

"Kenneth, then." I took a larger sip. Now adjusted to it, I found the sweetness quite pleasing. I could feel the spirit's warming influence on my cheeks.  
"Perhaps you have. At the very least I am curious about you."

"Curiosity is a dangerous thing."

"Only insofar as the satisfaction of it is concerned."

"You seem certain it will be satisfied."

"I have no reason to doubt it should. You do not strike me as the type of woman who hides even the most mundane of facts behind her wiles."

"You may have underestimated me, Mr. Hartnett."

"Kenneth." he corrected.

"Kenneth."

"You are from the Moore family of Greenmoor Commons in N-shire, am I correct?"

"You are."

"You see, only one query in and my assertion has proven true."

"Perhaps it is only that I have secrets of much greater consequence to conceal." he raised an eyebrow.  
"I have heard the Moore family has close ties to the Duke of N-shire."

"I will not deny it."

"Is not the son of the Duke near your age?"

"Two years my junior, though if you are making such inquiries to determine whether he and I are to be wed, I assure you that you are asking the wrong Moore sister."

"He is promised to your sister? Is she the elder?"

"The answer is no on both accounts, though we do expect marriage to her is his intention."

"To be overlooked so blatantly must cause a great deal of enmity between you."

"I shouldn't think so as I have no desire to marry him, and she is still far too young for such things."

"What is her age, if I may be so bold?"

"Only fourteen this year."

"But they expect a match between the two?"

"In time. It would be advantageous on all accounts." I truly wished to change the subject, I had no desire to discuss Arthur any further than was necessary (and in my opinion, nothing created that necessity) particularly now with the rumors of the ruin of Miss Gilbert still fresh in my mind - ruin I, suspected, he played no small role in.

"And what of you?" How I despised this question, it was not that it was unusual for a woman to be unmarried at my age, only that it was unusual for one from such a family to remain so. I took a rather large gulp of my drink, fortifying myself for the inevitable answer.

"As of yet-" the waitress arrived, delivering me from my plight by placing a sizable piece of battered fish surrounded by chipped potatoes before me. "Thank you." I breathed.  
"Thank you, Ethel." Kenneth said as she placed his plate before him. "I believe Miss Moore would like another glass, if you would." the waitress nodded. I looked at my glass - it was nearly drained! From the look of it Kenneth had scarcely touched his. I colored. "I take it you enjoyed my choice."

"It is acceptable." I replied, staring into the dancing reflection of the lamplight in the red liquid.

"Now, where were we?" he said, cutting into his fish. "Ah yes, so how did you come to be in Worthing?" My shoulders slumped in relief, he had evidently forgotten his previous line of questioning. I tucked in to my lunch, spearing a chip on my fork and eating it. It was fantastic!  
"My doctor felt it would be beneficial for my health."

"Have you been ill?"

"Not with any specific ailment, only a general malaise. He believed the sun and sea air would cure me of it."  
"Has it?"

"It has been quite invigorating." the waitress placed another glass of wine before me, deftly switching it with the empty one in a single motion.

"Why Worthing and not Brighton? I had heard Brighton was where all the fine families went. It was common talk among the regiments that if you wanted to marry well that was the place to be stationed."  
"Brighton is too crowded for my tastes this time of year. There is less beach than bathing machine on the shore! And I simply cannot tolerate the social set: it's all Balls and fashions and husbands." I was speaking too freely but seemed unable to stop myself. "Or finding husbands. It's so dreadfully dull! And that is not accounting for the gossip. I cannot fathom how women can pass so many hours of the day passing judgement on other women!" Kenneth laughed, his brown eyes lit up merrily. He seemed a man painted in shades of brown, from his tanned skin to his mouse colored hair - but was he ever handsome! I imagined, in his youth, he was precisely the sort of soldier they warned young ladies of.  
"What is your connection to Lt. Smith? Has he long been associated with your family?"

"No, I had never met him until after I arrived."

"Then how did you come to stay with him?"

"He is an associate of the Underhills, who are dear friends of mine."

"Yes, I recall Rev. Underhill, though not especially well - it has been a number of years and I was very young when he served in this parish. Where do they reside these days?"  
"Sutton at Hone."  
"The young man who visited last week, that was Rev. Underhill's son, was it not?"

"Yes, Quentin."  
"He did not stay long, did he?"

"He has his own duties at the Parish he needed to attend to."

"Has Rev. Underhill given up the pulpit yet?"  
"In all but name he has."

"To his son? Or another curate?"

"His son."

"So that is your connection to the Smiths, then? How have you found your stay?"  
"It has been fine."

"I'd imagine it is a good deal less comfortable than you are used to."

"In some ways. But I have enjoyed the quiet."

"It is a pity Bertha is away, I imagine you would have gotten on well with her."

"Yes, I had expected there would be another woman about the house."

"It must be very strange: sharing an unfamiliar house with man you have never met before."  
"I will not deny it. But he has been nothing but polite to me since I arrived."

"Have you spent much time with him?"

"Not especially, though even if I had I suspect I would still feel as if I hadn't."

"I know he has been away a good deal on Salvation Army business, I imagine you've been rather lonesome."

"I have enjoyed the solitude. In a large house there is always someone watching, it is rare to ever have any true time to yourself. Even if I am only reading in the Library there are how many staff members about at any time. There is never any peace."

"I have seen you at a number of meetings, are you interested in joining the Salvation Army?"

"Not as such, no. Though I do support its charitable mission." I said, taking another sip. I went to spear another chip only to find it returned empty - looking down I saw my meal was almost gone.

"You were with Lt. Smith that day they found that poor girl in the alleyway."

"Yes."

"Terrible thing." he shook his head. "I heard it was he who found her, is that so?"

"Yes, we were leaving and we heard a woman scream, so we ran to help her."

"And you were too late to save her?"

"No, the woman who had screamed was a tavern maid. The victim had been dead for quite some time."

"And the villain just left her lie in the street?"

"No, when we arrived she had been strung between the fire escape and a rain barrel."

"Strung?" Irritation rose in me, how was he not comprehending?

"Yes, she was suspended by ropes between the fire escape and rain barrel. George cut her down."

"That's horrifying! You say it was Smith who cut her down - how?" For all his fine looks this man was terribly slow, no small wonder why he had joined the military rather than a more respectable career.

"With a knife."

"I would think a little pocket knife would not be able to cut through rope so quickly."

"It was a scout knife."

"I would not imagine Smith the type who would carry such a thing." Now that he mentioned it, nor did I. "So he cut her down in front of you?"

"Well, yes." I could think of no easy way to tell of my assistance.

"And after witnessing such a dreadful thing you still decided to remain in Worthing?" this question I was ill prepared for, I searched my mind for an excuse but my thoughts were lost in a sweetened fog.

"I... I... I believe I am not accustomed to having so much wine. I think I should be going home now." I stood, the world tilted around me - I felt a strong force bearing me up only to realize Kenneth had grabbed my arm in order to keep me from falling over.

"I'm sorry, I thought you would be more used to it. I'll help you back to the house." he wrapped his arm protectively about my shoulders,  
"I believe I can manage, now that I am upright." I insisted, shrugging him off.

The walk back to the house felt longer than usual and was painfully silent, my humiliation kept me from attempting even the most mundane conversation and I suspected he remained quiet in sympathy.

"Here we are," he said, guiding me onto the front stoop. "Do you need me to come in at all?"

"No thank you, I will be fine. Thank you for the meal, do have a pleasant evening."

"You as well." he answered with a tip of his hat. I was grateful to bid him goodbye. A wave of exhaustion broke over me as I pushed the door open and staggered in, thankful George was not yet home. I had no desire that he should witness my inebriated state. I toppled onto the sofa, picking up my book, but just as soon abandoning it, the letters blurred, holding no meaning. But the throw pillow held a great deal of promise! As soon as I lay my head upon it, I dropped off into a deep, dreamless slumber.

* * *

I awoke to the merry clinking of metal against china. Opening my eyes I watched as a cup of tea was set on the table before me,  
"I suppose you were more tired from last night than you suspected." Lt. Smith's gentle voice intoned. I managed to pull my somewhat disheveled self up into a sitting position, gratefully grasping the steaming cup in both hands and taking a large sip to clear the sour taste of decaying sugar from my mouth. I was startled to see the dim light of dusk through the windows,

"What time is it?"

"It's not quite 8:30. I have some sandwiches prepared, if you don't mind a late supper."

"No, I don't mind, thank you." How had I slept so long? I took another sip of tea, "When did you get back?"

"Just before five." Lt. Smith answered from the kitchen. He had allowed me to sleep three and a half hours in peace! He returned, passing a plate into my waiting hands, "They're plain cheese sandwiches, I thought they might ease your stomach." I shut my eyes, so he had noticed the faint whiff of alcohol perfuming the air around me.

"Mr. Hartnett came by to see you, when he found you weren't here he offered to take me out for lunch." I supplied the information unbidden. In truth, I doubted he would have asked if I hadn't volunteered it. He only nodded, supplying no scold or condemnation. I drank down another draught of tea.  
"Feel better?"

"Yes, much." I picked up the sandwich, examining it. The pungent aroma of the pale cheese brought once more to my mind the bare white walls of the Whitechapel apartment, the wingback chair and end table comprising the only furniture, a box of cigars and a romance novel on the table (which novel it was I could no longer remember) and Roger buttering bread in the kitchen, slicing cheese - and I, still wearing the ruined nightgown permanently stained with the filth of the Thames, too hungry to even contemplate my exhaustion. To this day, those sandwiches remained the best I had ever tasted for hunger magnified their flavor one hundred fold.  
"Is there something the matter?" Lt. Smith's question broke through the illusion, bringing me back to the moment.  
"No, just remembering. Thank you for the sandwich."

* * *

After breakfast, Wednesday, I had settled into the sofa with my book - now finished but for the final chapter put off that I might enjoy the process of reading the scandalous thing but for one more day - when there was a knock at the door.

"Miss Moore, could you get the door?" Lt. Smith called from the kitchen, where he stood, bent over the sink, cleaning the breakfast dishes. Irritated, I tossed the book onto the cushion next to mine and opened the door, expecting the broad face of Mr. Kitt to greet me with his customary "Good Morning Miss Moore!" - I was startled to see, instead, a freckle faced young man instead, waiting with an envelope.

"Good day ma'am, I have a telegram for a Miss Philomena Moore." he announced.

"I am she." I answered, taking the envelope handed me. "Thank you. If you would remain a moment?" The young man nodded. He resembled Henry Marshall - I silently wondered if he might be a younger brother or cousin as I tore open the letter.

 _Miss Moore stop_  
 _I have been unable to locate Miss Chapman in Bletchley stop_

 _Will return to Worthing on the evening train stop_  
 _Bond stop_

 _PS: Do be careful stop_

Do be careful. Always with the warnings as though I were merely a child playing at being a detective. But he had not been able to locate the sister... A thought, one that had sat on the edge of my consciousness only hinting at its contents, decided now was its moment to be known,

"I need to post a telegraph to Bletchley immediately, how far is it to the nearest telegraph station?"

"I can take your message." the young man offered.

"No, I'm afraid there is no time. Please, take me there at once." I could only hope the message would arrive before he left Bletchley. If my hunch was correct then, while I might not know who the murderer was, I was almost positive who he wasn't.

* * *

Wednesday came and went with no sign of Roger though it did bring a good deal of rain in the evening that arrived all sound and fury but cleared to a trickle by nightfall. I stared out the window, beaded with raindrops, at the streetlamp haloed by the moist air. With any luck he had gotten my message. The night felt pregnant with the promise of his return - as though the whole world were waiting on the coming moment when suspicion became fact. I stretched and tucked myself into the little bed, allowing the sound of the rain to lull me to sleep.

The morning arrived with a brightness suggesting the sun intended to make up for its absence the evening before. A mist hung about the town as Lt. Smith and I caught the early train to Arundel. We spent the morning touring the castle and its grounds. It was the library which captured my imagination - it was a magnificent room, well appointed, with hundreds of books distributed over its two stories. It felt smaller than my own beloved sanctuary at Greenmoor Commons - for how little he made use of it, Father was adamant that our house should have the finest library in the county; a lost cause when against the Duke's vast literary caverns but a noble goal nonetheless in my view - yet, I found the coziness of it appealing. Lt. Smith found he had rather a challenging task to move me along to the next rooms. We walked the gardens well into the afternoon with little conversation between us for he was so taken by the Edenesque surroundings he seemed more content to enjoy them in silence rather than distract from any part of them by frivolous talk. We took a coach into the town just south of the castle for an early supper, a tiny shore side locale known as Littlehampton (an apt name, if unimaginative). As the sky began to pale with the evening we took a stroll out on the beach to the shore. Lt. Smith took a seat on the sand and watched, a bemused smile on his lips as I combed the sand for seashells to bring home for Elizabeth and Avery. Finally, certain I had enough, I sat down beside the black haired man, "Well, I believe that shall be enough to satisfy my siblings." I remarked. He held out his hand and I passed a few to him that he might see them, he turned them over one by one, examining them,

"It a fine collection, they should be well pleased."  
"Does your daughter collect seashells?"

"She did when she was young, I suspect most girls do. She and her mother would often go to the shore in the early morning hours and return with pockets full of them - she was so proud of her collection! Brigid would go through them with her for hours choosing all the very best ones - then they'd line those up on the bookshelves, or windowsills - where ever space might be found. After her mother died, she stopped going to the shore." he finished sadly.

"When did she pass?"

"Sixteen years this April. There has never been a day since I haven't thought of her or our son. She liked the name William for him - Bill, after her father. She always wanted a house full of children, like the one she grew up in." he stared out at the horizon, watching the waves rise and fall for some time before he spoke again. "I've run through that night hundreds of times in my head, wondering what I might have done differently that she might have lived. The doctor assured me time and again there was nothing, it was the Lord's will, simple enough. I never blamed Him for it - the curse of humanity is that we will die. But for a year I found I had no will to speak to Him beyond formality but for when I was with my daughter. She was His gift to me - without her need of me I would have sunk into despair. I think she felt she needed to be strong for me - she never cried that first year but for when she thought I could not hear late at night, after we had said our prayers; and then never after that but on the rare occasion. I wish I could have done better by her that she would not have felt the need to put so much weight on shoulders far too narrow for such burdens. I fear I forced her to be too strong too young - but then, perhaps that was the Lord's intention for it is that very same strength that has borne her through the trials of our mission field. She relies only on God to fortify her in her faith. I can rest in the knowledge that when I'm gone she won't fall away, having only leaned on my faith instead of forming her own. There are times I regret bringing her into the Salvation Army - especially now with all the danger. And she, of all people, would merrily carry the banner into certain death singing all along. Had I only stayed in the regular ministry she would only concern herself with charity baskets and visits to the widows and spinsters. But I could not ignore the call of the Lord - and for my calling my family has come under fire in the war. And we are discouraged, we have lost the battle - but I trust, if we continue to fight, we will win the war. God will never allow his servants to be beaten, even where they are cut down He sows the seed that sprouts a thousand fold. I trust in him."  
"But you fear for your daughter."  
"I have lately buried four women who were daughters as well." he paused for a moment. "But we were so close to victory. If we could have just held out a month more. Maybe two at most. Perhaps..." I laid my hand gently on his shoulder, he met my gaze - I could see the compassion of my own countenance reflected in his spectacles. "Your parents must miss you a great deal."

"On the contrary, I believe they are relieved to be rid of me. I am nothing more than a burden to them." tears welled in my eyes - I had not intended them to but the sheer moment of the truth brought them forth threatening to topple over the brink. Lt. Smith wrapped his arm about my shoulders and pulled me close so that my head rested against his shoulder,

"Listen to me, you are not a burden. You are a beloved child of God and any man or woman would be fortunate to have you as a daughter. Never forget that." He said, pulling me to him tightly. "Never forget it." In my entire lifetime, so far back as I could recall, never had such words been uttered in my regard. I rested my head against the stalwart man's shoulder,

"Thank you." I mumbled. We remained in that aspect for sometime, nary a movement nor word between us, as the sun sunk low toward the sea.

* * *

George and I did not return to the house until well after moonrise. As we approached the door framed by the warm glow of the windows, something about the pleasant scene struck me as unusual. It only took a moment to realize what the oddity was, "George, did you leave a lamp on?" I inquired, less out of belief that he had than to alert him.

"No, perhaps it is Mr. Kitt come by." or perhaps not. Cautiously, I opened the door, hoping beyond hope it was Roger - though how I might explain his presence I could not begin to fathom. Sitting, arms sprawled across the wooden frame of the sofa, was Mr. Hartnett.

"Good evening, George, Miss Moore." he said, his voice more oily than I cared for.  
"Good evening Mr. Harnett." George replied stiffly - what was that I glimpsed in his eye as he spoke to the cadet? A fury I had never before seen in the man, never believed him even capable of. "What brings you to my house this evening?"

"I had hoped to speak with you regarding the repairs to the barracks."

"You might have waited until the meeting, tomorrow."

"Yes, but I did hope to once again see the charming, Miss Moore." he stretched, pulling himself to his full height from the sofa. "But finding neither of you home, I felt it my duty to make certain no one disturbed the place while you were out." He approached George, towering over the lieutenant by a full head, he drew in close enough to almost be whispering in his ear; "You know, you really should lock your door - especially in these troubled times."

"I'll take note of your suggestion." George answered through gritted teeth. Then Hartnett turned his attention to me,

"It is lovely to see you again, Miss Moore."

"Thank you, Mr. Hartnett."

"I thought we agreed it was to be Kenneth." Though I could no longer see his expression, I witnessed the pool of red beginning to grow at the base of George's neck. I nodded. "You can say it." he goaded.

"Thank you, Mr. Hartnett." I repeated. His eyes flashed with offense,

"Anyhow, you've had a letter." he said coolly, producing an envelope with the neat, sloping handwriting I recognized as Roger's. "I'll be off, then. It's quite late. We'll have to discuss the plans tomorrow. Goodnight." Placing his hat on his head, he handed the letter to me as he sauntered out the door into the night. I shut it behind as George continued to stand as one paralyzed, the knuckles of his fists, still hanging stiffly at his side, white.

"I would recommend you avoid Mr. Hartnett in the future." George said, still not turning from his place.

"Why?" I probed, he turned to me, his face still flushed from the encounter eyes wild with some emotion I could not wholly name for it seemed at war with others equally strong,

"I'd ask you just listen to me." He had never before spoken so forcefully to me on any matter - what was so important that he felt the need to order me to stay away from Hartnett; what did he know about the man? I nodded. His shoulders slackened at my agreement, "I'll be turning in for the evening. Goodnight, Miss Moore." he said warily, shuffling off toward the staircase.

"Mina." He turned, surprised,  
"I beg your pardon?" My face burnt as I repeated it,

"Mina, it is what my friends call me. If you like," I swallowed the lump which had formed in my throat. "If you like, you may call me by that name as well." He exhaled a short laugh, allowing the slight curve of a smile,

"And you may call me George, if it suits you. Goodnight, Mina." he replied, disappearing up the stair.  
"Goodnight, George." I whispered behind when I heard the door shut. Oh! The letter! I had almost forgotten it was still in my hands. I quickly rent the envelope and extracted the paper reading the tidy writing within,

 _Dear Miss Moore,_  
 _I arrived in Worthing this afternoon. I was able to procure the item you requested. If you are able, please meet me at the cafe on Montague tomorrow afternoon._

 _Regards,_

 _James Bond, Esq._

Naturally, he could not do me the small favor of naming the cafe. But then, if the letter were to be intercepted it would be harder for one not familiar with Roger to recognize him, whereas I could spot the man in an instant. If the letter were to be intercepted that was... Hartnett! I turned the envelope over to where it had been sealed. There wax appeared in tact; I drew the envelope closer. No... there was something amiss... the wax at the edge of the seal was more thinly spread, as if it had been remelted to the envelope in order to conceal where the wax had been slit from the paper. My heart began to rush - what had Harnett meant about opening my personal correspondence? To the average person it would appear not unlike a business transaction - albeit a strange one; but to one man... could Hartnett be that man? And if he were not what could possibly be his game?


	12. Chapter 12

"Mina, while I am out is there anything you would like me to pick up at the grocery store?" George asked, putting the breakfast dishes into the sink.

"Not especially. I was thinking I might go into town this afternoon."

"I cannot fault you, it is too fine a day to be spent inside. If there is nothing else, I'll be off."

"Oh! If you would, might you pick out a book for me at the bookstore?"

"Anything in particular?"

"Just choose what you think best."

"Will that be all?" he asked, clapping his Salvation Army cap over his black hair.

"Yes, thank you."

"I shouldn't be out too long. Good day." he said, stepping out into the cool midmorning air. I took to the sink, scrubbing the dishes as best I could with untrained hands. Keeping busy by any means was all I could do to pass the time before I could reasonably leave. Every inch of my body felt as though it were near bursting with an internal light as I bustled about, collecting those things I needed. I covered my shoulders with my shawl, hooked my umbrella over my arm and opened the door, the dewy chill told me of a late night rain bringing with it fairer weather. Oh, I mustn't forget! I strode to the bookshelf and extracted a small, folded piece of paper from within a thin novel and placed it carefully in my bag nestled beside the letter from Roger. I glanced at the clock - not yet 10:30, still too early, but then, I could not bear to be cooped up a moment longer - fixing my hat I stepped forth from the home into the bright sunlight.

I strolled down Montague feigning passing interest in the items displayed in the shop windows. I was strongly weighing the merits of a visit to the grocery in order that I might discomfit Russell (a cruel way of passing the time, I was aware - but almost irresistibly tempting in both its comedic appeal and flattery) when I saw that familiar profile lounging in a chair at a cafe table across the street, lazily nursing a cup of what I guessed to be coffee, half eaten pastry on a plate before him.

"You are a cool one, given the circumstances." I remarked, seating myself beside him.

"Should I be hiding in shadows and peeking around corners?"

"You wrote you obtained the item?"

"I did," he said, producing the small compact from his pocket. "You were very specific, the telegram must have cost you a fortune."

"Then it is a good thing I am blessed with such a fortune. Unlike some Lords who cannot be bothered to give more than a few lines."

"They were more than what was required for the task."

"If the task were to only inform me you were still alive then I suppose they were sufficient. It was only by sheer luck I was even able to contact you before you left Bletchley."

"Wasted trip that was." he grumbled. "Great expense to find nothing."

"I question whether it was wasted. What made you think she was there, anyhow?"

"I spoke to a number of Miss Chapman's associates, though she renamed herself Miss Grayson, most had not seen nor heard from her for over a week - it was her maid who informed me she had gone to Bletchley suddenly."

"I wonder how you acquired that bit of information." I raised my eyebrow as I spoke.

"I do not see where that is relevant to the facts." he answered in a manner such as to in no way obviate his probable guilt.

"Did she tell the maid of this trip in person?"

"No, she left a letter - but the maid swore it was in her handwriting."

"And there was no evidence she had ever gone to Bletchley?"

"No, so either the letter was a feint to disguise her true travel location, or she never made it there."

"I believe there is a third option."

"And that is?" he furthered, leaning forward.

"The compact if you would?" I held out my hand into which he deposited the jewel encrusted item. It was not especially valuable but the top featured a rather pleasing painting in miniature of a young boy pushing a girl on a swing on a down overlooking a vast field.

"I cannot see why you would want such a thing."

"I am more curious as to how you were able to get it from her personal vanity. Did you sneak in through the window or did you use the kitchen door?"

"I always find the door to make for far easier passage."

"I assume it was your maid friend that facilitated?"

"While the cat is away..." he grinned. Horrible man to be so shameless!

"So what is it you hope to find?"

"Well, I would not expect a man to think twice on it, but as a woman," I pulled my gloves tight and slowly opened pried the two circular pieces apart, "I have never known a person to open a compact mirror... without getting their prints on it." I displayed for him the shining reflective surface, the edges of which were swirled with three sets of delicate lines and whorls. I placed it on the table, now digging in my bag I procured the paper,

"When you told me you were unable to locate Miss Chapman in Bletchley I had my suspicions..." I spoke, examining the paper against the compact, "and there we are, Mr. Bond!" I lay down the two items before Roger, triumphantly.

"She never left Wembley." he whispered, comparing for himself the two sets of prints.

"Not alive anyhow. I suspect it was Chapman, himself, who forced her to write the letter before he killed her."

"That would explain why he destroyed her face - to prevent her from being recognized."

"It would not have taken long to discover her true identity, even with the false name."

"I would assume the Salvation Army uniform was also part of his ruse."

"Without question. I believe-"

"That Chapman is posing as a member of the Salvation Army." Roger interrupted, I nodded. "But why?"

"I have reason to believe Penelope Carville is residing in Worthing."

"Penny Carville! Have you found her?" he asked.

"No. But then, as far as I am aware neither has he. I believe, with this final piece of information, I now know his entire plot."

"I believe I have an inkling as well, but tell me what you have uncovered."

"You were correct, he wants us to know he is back in England."

"But to what end? He must know we will seek him out once we know he has returned."

"I would imagine he is counting on it. You recall there were only two people in all of England who could positively identify Mr. Chapman?" Roger nodded. "And now one of them is dead and the other is believed to be in Worthing, where a number of slayings near identical to the Blackpool murders have occurred in the past month. But so far, none among them has been identified as Miss Carville, even were she to have changed her name, I would imagine she still bore a number of scars from her time in captivity which would lead her to be readily identified."

"Yes, she was rather bad off when Father discovered her. The physician was certain she would die from her wounds, but she pulled through by some miracle. Father promised her he'd find Chapman."

"And it is your belief that your father did find him in Australia?"

"Yes."

"And you also assert you found his hide out, but he had escaped on the heels of your arrival."

"Last year - there could be no doubt he had been there."

"But was it your arrival which prompted him to leave?"

"I would imagine so."

"I don't believe so. In fact, I am quite certain he had no knowledge of your visit whatsoever."

"How do you mean?" his tone was almost accusatory, I guessed he took a certain pride in having frightened his father's killer away.

"Consider this, even if he had gleaned some knowledge of all those who had put into port you still traveled under the name of Bond, am I correct?"

"Of course." his eyes widened with the dawning realization. "Of course! How could I have missed it! He would not know the name James Bond from Adam!"

"Had you been Lord Roger Norbert, perhaps he might have known you and fled. But the Outback is largely open plain-"

"Without knowing of my arrival the only way he could have escaped would have been to see me approaching his shack, and had he fled then I should have seen him. Blast! How did I miss it?" Pride, I mentally answered for him. "Which would mean he returned to England for a specific reason."

"Which I would guess to be the discovery of his sister's identity - likely he uncovered it following the death of his mother. I would imagine he obtained a copy of the will which would have allowed him to know the identity of her sole heir. You stated Mrs. Chapman was the unpleasant, grasping type - of the sort unlikely to leave money or property to any but family."

"And she had no other family aside from her two children."

"Correct. And Charles could reasonably assume the will would fail to mention him, therefore, it could be assumed that the only name on the will would be that of his sister - thus revealing her identity. And with that information it would be an easy matter to locate her."

"So why did he strive to gain our attention?"

"So that we might kill him."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well not him specifically."

"I'm not sure I gather your meaning."

"You recall I am residing with a Mr. Smith, correct?"

"Yes, doesn't he hold some rank with the Salvation Army?"

"As does his daughter."

"How have you and she gotten on?" Roger inquired, taking a sip of his coffee,

"Hard to say, exactly, as she has spent the entire duration in London." Roger sputtered,

"You mean to say you have been alone with an unmarried man this entire time?" I handed him a napkin,

"Now really, you must be mindful of your manners - no sense drawing unwanted attention. There's been nothing untoward about it, and it was not the entire time - Quentin stayed with us a few days."

"Forgive me if that does little to settle my mind."

"You really are one to talk."

"Still, you should have told me."

"And how, praytell, was I to do that?" He attempted reply but found his argument empty, "Exactly."

"You could have gotten a room at an Inn."

"With four thousand ruffians having descended on the town like a plague of locusts? And how was your room?"

"I'd rather not discuss it."

"I should say I was safer with one preacher than at any inn."

"You never can tell with the religious type."

"I can handle myself. Besides, the point is moot, I have already stayed there these past two weeks with no incident regarding him."

"Which is to say there has been at least one incident."

"We are getting ahead of ourselves, Mr. Bond." I helped myself to a bite of his pastry.

"Obstinate tart." he grumbled. I grinned defiantly in reply.

"Anyhow, you recall Miss Chapman was dressed in a Salvation Army uniform."

"Yes, we were rather at a crossroads about that, but I believe we suspected it as another possible measure to throw off her identity."

"And to bring our attention to the case, as you recall it was only the fear that her death would spark an all out war between the Skeleton Army and the Salvation Army that began this investigation."

"It was a clever ploy."

"More clever than even that, I'm afraid. If the woman was not a member of the Salvation Army (as would have eventually been discovered) whomever murdered the woman would have had to have access to a woman's Salvation Army uniform - a fact which left precious few suspects."

"So theoretically, the murderer would have to be a member of the Salvation Army in order to have access to such a uniform."

"Or be related to a female member. At least, that would be the obvious assumption. Further, the uniform in question was that of a Captain - a fact I only recognized after having seen Ada Smith."

"That leaves a very small pool of suspects, indeed."

"Enough for the police to easily reason out possible killers to investigate. Of whom one would shine well above the rest: Lt. Smith's daughter holds the rank of Captain, he relocated to Worthing from the western coast nineteen years ago, his late wife bore some resemblance to the victims, he has been alone in the house almost since the murders began, and, most damning - I found the bindings used in the murders in the bottom drawer of his wardrobe. Five Catholic-style rosaries made from knotted cord with blood on them." Urgently, he covered his lips with an upstanding finger,

"We never revealed the knotted cords were rosaries." he whispered.

"I'll admit it would have been a nice piece of information to know."

"Yes, but you know how deep anti-papist sentiment runs - if it had gotten out there would have been killings in the street." he scanned his surroundings to make sure no one had overheard. "There still might be if we are not careful. You're certain Smith is not Chapman?"

"As sure as you are that the shack in the Outback of Australia belonged to him. He could not live in both Australia and Worthing."

"And you are certain he could not have come by the knowledge of the crimes in another way, you said he lived on the western coast - do you know where?"

"I haven't asked."

"That seems like precisely the question one would ask."

"It would have been impropitious. In doing so I would have revealed I had spoken about him without his knowledge."

"I would think a man would assume such a thing - are not all you women prone to gossip?"

"And had he been the murderer I would have tipped him off to my suspicions, and there is no guarantee he would have told the truth - who is there to contradict it? That is beside the point, I am certain he is neither Chapman nor the murderer."  
"What makes you so sure?"

"The fingerprints. We now know the woman murdered was Chapman's sister. If Smith were not Chapman there would have been no reason to murder her - in fact it would have been better that she, as the only known person who could identify Chapman, be left alive to exonerate him for only she could say with certainty who he wasn't. And he cannot be Chapman, Miss Chapman was blonde, almost to the point of being ginger haired, I would imagine his mother was the same, and, I would guess, his father as well." Roger nodded.  
"George's daughter has dark hair, almost as dark as his, his wife is blonde: it's a simple matter of inheritance. Even if he were to somehow turn out as dark as he is, with blonde parents a blonde sister, and a blonde wife, it is terribly unlikely he would produce a dark haired daughter."  
"I see your point."  
"I believe Chapman intends to frame George for his crimes. With no witnesses to testify to the contrary and so much evidence against him there could be no doubt of a conviction."

"And then this... George would be hung, leaving Chapman free to live life in England as he pleases." I suddenly became quite conscious that I had been using Lt. Smith's name quite familiarly, still I was eager to confirm Roger's hypothesis,

"Precisely!"

"But do you have any clues as to Chapman's whereabouts?"

"From what I have gathered, he has joined with the Salvation Army. I have my suspicions as to who, but I am not certain."  
"I take it more than one man fits the bill then?"

"Two are the most likely candidates. Both are Cadets, joined up in the last year, and both have had access to the home of Lt. Smith. But, unfortunately, so has everyone else in town, for he has never cultivated the habit of locking his doors." Roger's face fell into his palm - he sighed deeply,  
"So it literally could be anyone." I nodded gravely. "So what leads you to suspect these two over the how many thousand other men currently occupying Worthing?"  
"Mr. William Kitt has the most complete access to Lt. Smith's house as he seems to function as Smith's personal assistant. Physically, he could easily overpower a woman and carry her body to wherever he intended to dump it. During the time period when Miss Hayword was strung up he was not accounted for."  
"I take it Miss Hayword was the fifth victim?" I colored, having forgotten his absence.  
Yes."  
"What do you mean, strung up?"  
"Just as it sounds, the murderer lashed her between a rain barrel and the second story landing of a fire escape so she hung, suspended, in midair." Roger raised his brows in surprise,  
"He's never done that before."  
"The entire thing was strange. Normally, he hides the corpse waiting for it to be found, but in this instance I believe he orchestrated the find."  
"Howso?"  
"He waited for the barmaid next door to go out the back door and then locked her out knowing she would most likely take the alley to the front."  
"And that is where she discovered the body, am I to take it?"  
"Yes, it was her screams which alerted us to its presence."

"So he wanted it found at a particular time."  
"Yes, it was right after we had served the poor for the evening."  
"Were you in the habit of attending these events?"  
"No. George was discouraged after the Magistrates hearing so I volunteered."  
"Because you pitied him." I nodded. "You realize you suspected him of murdering four women at the time?"  
"Yes." I answered, lowering my eyes in shame.

"You're twenty two years old and yet you still have no sense in your head!" he cried out in exasperation.

"Well, it was a good thing I was all sensibility then, for had I not gone I would not have witnessed the scene firsthand."  
"So it was you who answered the cries of the barmaid?"  
"Lt. Smith and I, yes."  
"Was there anything else unusual about the victim?"  
"She was not killed in the same manner as the other women. It appeared she had been incised before her death, and those incisions were more irregular and cut more deeply into the flesh. She also had bruises around her neck as though she had been manually strangled."  
"But she still bore the marks of the bindings?"  
"Yes."  
"Tell me about Miss Hayword?"  
"She was well known to Lt. Smith, mid twenties-"  
"So a good deal younger than the other victims." I nodded, continuing,  
"She was French in feature, Lt. Smith claimed she had been ruined in her youth and had since adopted a disgraceful lifestyle, but that she had been frequently attending Salvation Army events- What are you thinking?" Roger had raised a hand to his temple as though in deep contemplation.  
"Miss Hayword knew Miss Carville." My jaw dropped, "Oh come now, close your mouth, you look like a codfish. Chapman must have overheard her speaking about Penny and tortured her in an attempt to gain information as to her whereabouts. She must have been a very good friend to Miss Carville."  
"Why do you say that?"  
"Because he strangled her in a rage, my guess is she refused to surrender her friend to his tender mercies and so he lost his temper and choked her to death. He probably strung her up in hopes of causing Miss Carville to panic and thus accidentally reveal herself. If Miss Hayword had told the location of Miss Carville I am certain we should have found her body by now. Thus she must have been a very good friend indeed." I was astounded. How had I missed something so obvious? "Anyhow, I believe we were discussing Mr. Kitt, you said he was not accounted for at the time the body was hung?"  
"No."  
"Could anyone else have possibly slipped away from the group, unnoticed, and strung her up? I imagine, it could not have took long to do if he had already hidden the body nearby." I nodded,  
"I did not notice anyone slip off, but then, I was distracted by my work."  
"Is there anything else that might indict Mr. Kitt?"  
"There was something, the other night he was quite keen to warn me about Lt. Smith."  
"Warn you in what way?"  
"Something about Smith favoring blondes, it was all very strange. Then he went off on a diatribe about his mother."  
"He would hardly be the first man who did not care for his mother."  
"No... it was more than that... there was something sinister about it. It felt as though he wished to poison her with the venom of words."  
"Is this Mr. Kitt a clever fellow?"  
"No, he strikes me a rather stupid, brute of a man."  
"So he is either precisely what he appears, or one of the finest actors of our age. Who is the other man?"  
"A Kenneth Hartnett. Recently returned from Africa, at least that is his claim."  
"What is his relation to Smith?"  
"The pair seem to share a certain antipathy, though why I could not say."  
"And what sort of man is he?"  
"He has the manners of a gentleman and is quite charming. He is rather a handsome fellow, I doubt he would need to use force in order to capture a woman, but equally, I have no doubt he could if he wished to."  
"Is he intelligent?"  
"He is very clever, I would wager he is moreso that than intelligent."  
"What has caused you to suspect him?"  
"He was very interested in getting information regarding the discovery of Miss Hayword." I preferred to omit the detail where he had gotten me so inebriated I willingly volunteered the information.  
"What else?" Roger pressed.  
"We found him in the house yesterday evening after we had been away for the day."  
"Was he rummaging about?"  
"No, he appeared to be... waiting for us. And then there was this..." I threw the torn envelope on the table so Roger could see the seal. He picked it up, turning it over curiously,

"It's the letter I sent you last night."  
"He gave it to me. Take a look at the seal." Roger held the seal close to his eyes,  
"Someone's tampered with it!" he exclaimed.  
"Which is precisely why I hoped to find you early."  
"You think he may try to follow you?"  
"I have no doubt of it. But he should not be on the prowl until after lunch."

"Lord Norbert?" a familiar voice exhaled. Roger and I both started, I felt my blood run cold with dread.

"I beg your pardon?" Roger answered the very pale Lt. Smith.  
"I'm sorry, for a moment it was like I had seen a ghost, you just looked so like a man I once knew: a Lord Francis Norbert."  
"Yes, he was my father." Roger still appeared aloof,  
"You must be Roger then! I haven't seen you since you were just a lad."  
"Then you have the advantage for I cannot recall having seen you before at all." Roger shot back, coolly. I shut my eyes, this was not going well.  
"Your father attended my ordination in Whitehaven. It was an honor to have one of the great Lords of Cumberland present."  
"Ah yes, Whitehaven. Father did always try to attend the local ordinations, he always felt it was best to be in the good graces of a Vicar before he became a Bishop. And you are...?"  
"Lt. George Smith of the Salvation Army. Pleasure to make you acquaintance." he said, extending a hand. Roger shot me an icy glare before assuming a cheery smile,  
"The pleasure is all mine Lt. Smith."  
"I see you are familiar with Miss Moore." George observed.  
"Yes, we are acquainted through our mutual friends, the Underhills of Sutton At Hone. I believe she said you were familiar with them?" I sunk my face into my hands, I could kill him.  
"Yes! Rev. Underhill and I served together!"  
"Well, it is grand to meet you, I'm glad to hear you are taking such good care of Miss Moore."  
"Are you in town long?"  
"Only a few days, I believe, but we shall see."  
"Have you found an inn yet?"  
"Yes, but the less said about it the better, I'm afraid. There seems to be an unusual amount of riff raff about - at least I take it to be unusual, given Worthing's reputation."  
"Hopefully they won't be around for much longer. But in the meantime you may stay at my house if you like, it's nothing fancy, but we do have an empty guest room and it is quiet." I shook my head trying to gain Lt. Smith's attention, but he was too far gone.  
"Why that sounds delightful!" Oh how I despised this side of Roger. "I would be honored to stay with you - that is, if Miss Moore doesn't object."  
"No, not in the least!" I answered enthusiastically with a fake smile plastered on my face - I hated him so very much.  
"Good, then it is settled. If you would prefer I can take you there now."  
"Yes, that would be quite acceptable. Miss Moore, are you ready?" Roger said, extending a hand to help me up. I glanced up - how did he manage to look so infuriatingly gallant in these moments? I nodded, clasping his hand in my own - if I was to be bound for hell it was certain I would take him with me. We followed a short distance behind Lt. Smith,  
"You honestly could not ask where he was from? Whitehaven!"  
"Shut your gob." I shot back.


	13. Chapter 13

"So you say Workington has finally incorporated?" George declared, delighted to be able to once more speak of his homeland.

"Yes, we expect Whitehaven will follow eventually."

"It's been a long time in coming." I dumped a scoop of sugar into George's tea and stirred it vigorously,

"How do you take your tea Lord Norbert?" I hoped George did not detect the note of disdain as I spoke Roger's name.

"Black, thank you." he replied.

"Now you say you are raising shorthorn cattle? Beef or Dairy - or both, possibly?"

"Cumberland White comprise the majority of my stock though as of late I have been experimenting with crossing them with Galloways. So far I have been quite pleased with the results, particularly with the Shorthorn bull, Galloway dam crosses - the calves seem to inherit the best of both worlds: the steers gain the beefiness of the Galloways and the hardiness of the Whites. They also tend to take on a fine blueish grey appearance."  
"And what of the cows, are they any good for milking?"  
"They can be milked, but I find they are better used for veal. The Whites provide the majority of our milk production. I had considered purchasing a few of those Holstein Friesians which are so popular in America, but they have fewer lactations and don't produce significantly more milk while at the same moment being far less hardy - for the price, my money would be better invested in Dairy Shorthorns, if anything. I do keep a small herd of Guernseys, but that is mostly for use in the house. They are a significant expense but then I do greatly enjoy the taste and golden color of their milk and butter." I lay the tea before the two men, eager to escape their conversation. So Lord Norbert truly was a cattle man - and it seemed he fully intended to discuss every aspect of his business with his captivated audience. I could think of nothing so dreadfully dull.  
"Oh, Miss Moore, would you care to have a seat? I was just about to inform Mr. Smith of the particulars of the whitefaced woodland flock. For the past three generations they have taken first prize in every showing in which they have participated." he simpered in a manner I supposed was meant to appear pleasant, above his weak smile his dark eyes shone mockingly.

"No, thank you. I believe I have a few letters to write." or, at the very least some walls to stare at which would be far and away more interesting than listening to him drone on over livestock.

"Are you certain? The letters might wait a bit." George suggested, as though I were somehow missing something of great import by my leaving.  
"Yes, I have been too long delayed in attending to the task as it is." I replied, curtly. The men nodded, returning to their conversation now focused on the particulars of milk production and feed quality. I quickly made my escape up the stairwell.

It had not been a lie, I had delayed far too long in writing Millie, and now appeared the ideal time, when I desperately needed to vent my frustrations. I dipped my pen in the inkwell and began to scratch out my thoughts onto the paper:

 _Dearest Millie,_

 _I do hope this letter finds you well. I have been quite busy as of late what with Quentin's visit and all. Only just yesterday did Mr. Smith and I visit the Castle at Arundel. It was a magnificent piece of architecture - you and Edgar must pay it a visit when next you are in the region; I know he would absolutely adore some of the artifacts from it's medieval days and you would not be disappointed by the furnishings. We then took a trip to the shore. I must say, though I have one of my own, I find it very easy to consider Mr. Smith in a paternal light. He has been very kind to me. I only wish I could say that of my own father; but I suppose such things are chosen by God despite how unfathomable His choices on the matter might seem to be. Though, I suppose it is Quentin's visit you will be most interested in. It was all too brief, he arrived two Sundays ago and left early Thursday of the same week. It was a joy to see him once again. But you will never believe who has since turned up! It seems Lord Norbert has business in Worthing this week. I know! I was terribly shocked to see him this morning having coffee at a local cafe. But it was he. I did stop, out of politeness, to speak with him a moment - he is as droll and insipid as ever, I assure you - but as I was Mr. Smith came upon us. You will never believe my poor luck but as it happens Mr. Smith also is from Cumberland (some coal port town on the Western coast I gathered from their conversation) and was somewhat acquainted with Lord Norbert's deceased father. This would have been annoying were it one conversation, but with the rabble about town in protest of the Salvation Army, proper hotel rooms are scarce. Upon discovering Lord Norbert's predicament, Mr. Smith generously offered him the guest room in his house. I do not deceived you, at this very they are downstairs sipping tea and discussing the specifics of cattle rearing. Millie, you have my most humble apologies for all those many times you listened patiently as I chattered on; I have come to realize, with startling clarity, a new appreciation for your tolerance to indulge those things which are of no interest to you. I cannot even pretend to claim the same. I was only too eager to flee from their company. Lord Norbert has in no way altered these past four years - you would not fail to recognize his same weak smile and vacuous eyes. However, aside from the risk of being bored to the point of distraction, I will say it is something of a relief to have another person I am familiar with in Worthing - too many new acquaintances may suit you but you know I have never been keen to be surrounded by veritable strangers._

 _I hope this letter finds you and your family well. I was distressed to hear of Freddy's illness but assuaged by the news he is on the mend. It is difficult when they are so young because what seems a minor temperature can turn severe in so little time and there is little they can say to communicate it but to cry. I am certain he had the most attentive nurse in you. I dearly miss my godson and long for the day we can once more play by the lily pond. I wonder how he fared not being able to see his beloved frogs during his convalescence? Or did Edgar sneak one up to him? He is a good man, but you must be watchful of him - I do not need to tell you he is easily led astray by that towheaded imp (as are we all, I suppose). Do take care,_

 _All my love,_

 _M_

I reread the letter. It was not especially true in content so far as my adventures were to be regarded, but the emotion it represented was as real and solid as the desk it had been written upon. Roger was easy enough to miss until the very moment he was before me, at which point I had to question how I had deluded myself to believe that such a man was even remotely tolerable in either of his forms. That he had accepted George's invitation and would now be sharing a house with myself was near intolerable even if it was the most sensible option. It was not that I was blind to the logic of it, even that it put us in a position of great advantage for we would be able to work without the invention of reasons for which to meet - but the presumption! It felt as though my quiet citadel were being invaded by a man who was either infuriating or dull depending on which part of himself he chose to show. Of course, George was in his glory. From his interaction with Roger I could suppose the Norbert family held a good deal of regard in Cumberland. That and the sheer number of cattle he held - twenty head was astounding! And that was not even taking into account the other types of livestock. I had never seriously considered Roger as a Lord - to me, he had always been my spy - the realization felt so incongruent as to cause my internals to prickle with irritation. I could not envision him as wealthy, pouring over ledgers in some cavernous office, going out to inspect the herds. perhaps going shooting with his fellow countrymen in the droll way gentlemen did while ladies were expected to watch and applaud regardless of whether the shot found its mark. In my imaginings he was always the rake, the rover, the man with no true home who plotted and schemed and endangered his life in order to protect his Queen. I could not reconcile the Lord who simpered and wheedled with the devil-may-care Spy. I threw myself into the bed - perhaps a book might take my mind from its current preoccupation. And perhaps it might have, I shall never know, for as soon as my head found the pillow I dropped into a deep slumber.

* * *

I was awakened some hours later by the sound of violent knocking at the front door. The darkness of the room disoriented me: where the streetlights already lit? It took a moment to realize I had fallen asleep. "Lt. Smith! Lt. Smith!" the voice, vaguely familiar though my sleep addled mind could not place it, shouted over the sound of fists pounding on the wooden door as if to break it.

"Just a minute!" George cried, though I doubt he was heard for the noise continued. I heard George moving about the other room and rushed out my own meeting he and Roger at the top of the stairwell. Roger looked me over with a smirking glint in his eye. I looked down realizing I was still in my day dress while he and George were in their bedclothes. George pounded down the stairs to the door, Roger and I both made to follow him but started at the realization we would collide. He gestured with his hand that I might go ahead of him; I shot him a sour glare before quickly alighting down the steps, Roger at my heels. George was just throwing open the door to reveal a heavy set man, garbed in a Naval blue Salvation Army coat, breathing heavily from his exertion.  
"Russell!" I cried, immediately clapping a hand over my mouth. I was not Pip, at the moment, but Philomena - and it was highly inappropriate for a Lady of my rank to be so familiar with a shop boy she had only met once before. It was too late, of course, the young man turned a remarkably deep shade of red at hearing his Christian name pronounced by the lips of a lady. George, however, ignored the scene, focusing only of the young man he demanded,

"Russell! What do you mean by waking the whole household in the middle of the night?"  
"Sir, there's been another one found." George hurriedly ushered the young man into the parlor and shut the door.

"Do we know who it was?"

"Yes, she's not one of the Army." George's showed visible relief at that pronouncement,

"Who then?" Russell seemed to struggle with the words,

"It's Kate. Catherine Thompson." he managed to choke out. George paled, grasping behind him for the sofa - finding it, he fell onto the cushions,

"Kate... Where did they find her?"

"On the beach, the tide uncovered her... I should have known there was something wrong! She's never been away from the store more'n three days and I hadn't seen her all week." The comely blonde girl from the shop! The one he had joked about marrying - or, at least, at this moment, I wished very sincerely it had been a joke.  
"What of Bess?"

"They can't find her! I only just saw her yesterday - she didn't say nothin' about Kate being missing."

"She may not have wanted to alarm you." Or perhaps she knew more than she was willing to tell about Kate's disappearance, I silently added. "I must go see their parents, immediately." George foundered.

"May I go as well? I can have a basket prepared if you'll give me a moment."

"Thank you, Miss Moore. I am certain they will appreciate any gesture of kindness in their time of need. Russell, will you be joining us as well?"  
"No... I just... I can't. Not yet." he replied, his face tragic. "I need to be home with my grandmother. Granddad's out helping with the search for Bess; I don't want her to be alone." George nodded.

"Will you stay and walk with us to the house?" Russell nodded. "Just give me a few minutes to dress and we will leave."

I picked up a basket that sat beside the green chair and unceremoniously dumped its contents of various magazines and pamphlets on to the coffee table then proceeded to the kitchen to fill it with whatever victuals we had about. Roger stood beside the pantry,

"Stay here, the killer won't expect there is another staying besides myself and may attempt to hide the evidence while we are out. I'll meet you by the pier at dawn before news gets around." I whispered, Roger nodded in assent. We would have precious little time to examine the scene before the beach was swarmed by those who felt the spectre of violent death worthy of their morbid attentions.  
"Mr. Shaw, would you carry this basket for me?" I said, turning to the neglected young man, "Oh dear, what is the matter? Were you familiar with the woman?" I asked, knowing full well the answer. Russell sniffed loudly and ran his sleeve roughly across his face.

"She... she was a friend. I've known her just about all my life, her and Bess. We went to church together when we were children. She's just a year younger than me." he floundered in his misery.

"Were she and Bess sisters?"

"Cousins, but close as." He began to dissolve before my eyes, I tenderly placed a hand on his arm.

"I'm sorry for your loss." Roger interjected somberly. Russell started, looking at the stranger as though just noticing him.

"Who is he?" the young man spoke with an accusatory tone, his sorrow temporarily forgotten in his shock.

"Mr. Shaw, this is Lord Roger Norbert of Cumberland. He is staying here at the invitation of Lt. Smith. He's a friend of Quentin Underhill's and, I believe, Lord Norbert's father was acquainted with Lt. Smith before he relocated here. Lord Norbert, Mr. Russell Shaw." Russell attempted something of a clumsy bow, Roger looked on the young man pityingly and extended a hand,

"It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Mr. Shaw. Though I wish it were under better circumstances." Russell gave the Lord's hand a quick clasp before finding he once more needed his sleeve. Roger looked to me for assistance in handling this weeping behemoth. I shrugged. "I see you are a member of the Salvation Army?" he attempted.

"Yes," the young man spoke, his voice thick with tears. "Joined up on Thursday." I raised an eyebrow but Russell was far too blinded by tears to notice. "I gotta watch over my Grandmother, I don't want her getting hurt." Noble enough a reason, if likely not what they would prefer from a cadet. But beggars could not be choosers in times such as these, I supposed.

"Are you ready, Miss Moore?" George descended the stairs straightening his tie.

"Yes." I answered.

"I do apologize for the trouble, Lord Norbert."

"It is no trouble at all. If there is anything I might do in service of the family, you need only ask."

"Thank you, Lord Norbert. I do hope you will be able to get some sleep - I don't anticipate we will return before dawn."

"Take all the time you require."

* * *

George and I followed Russell to the Thompson house. I had only seen Kate once and was otherwise unfamiliar with her family (I could only assume they were of rather low means as was common of most of Chapman's victims beyond his sister), thus I was not wholly prepared to see the large, well appointed house before me. Certainly, it was no mansion, only somewhat larger in size than George's, and yet it seemed a great deal grander by some scale that could not be described in particulars, only felt. Standing before the stone fence, Russell handed me my basket and bade us good night.

"Mr. Shaw, if you would, please ask your Grandmother if I may call on her for tea tomorrow." I said. Russell's eyes grew large as saucers,

"I will! That is, I mean, I will tell her of your intent." he answered awkwardly.

George knocked on the round topped wooden door, it was only a moment before the door swung open reveling the form of a harried silver haired woman I guessed to be the maid by her garb. "Oh George! Thank God for you!" she gushed, grasping George's hands in her bony fingers. "I was afraid you might be the Constable again."

"How are they, Nellie?"  
"They're as poorly as you might expect. The missus took to her room upon hearing the dreadful news and she has not been out since. Her sister arrived an hour ago to console her. The master is with the children."  
"Have they found Bess yet?"

"No, and I'm not sure I want them to - I'd rather live in the hope she may yet be alive and not-" her voice caught. "They were just the most beautiful little girls. I can still see them running wild through the house with streams of ribbons flowing from their hands." Tears began to flow from her eyes.  
"Oh Nellie," George pulled the elder woman into an embrace. "We must not give up hope. She may yet be out there. We must pray to the Lord to bring her home to us." The woman withdrew, dabbing her eyes with an ancient silk handkerchief, I noticed the letters vCo embroidered onto the corner in the palest blue - probably given to her by her Lady once a new monogram was required. She started upon noticing me standing just behind George,

"I'm sorry - who might you be?"

"Lady Philomena Moore - I brought a basket." I replied, awkwardly thrusting the basket forward as if to prove I was in earnest. My accompaniment of George had been a mistake, they had just lost a daughter, possibly two, I was an interloper on their grief.

"Miss Moore is staying with me for the season. When she heard of the tragedy she wished to do what little she could to ease the pain of the family."

"Oh well, bless you child!" the woman exclaimed, placing her thin hands firmly upon my shoulders. "Bless you! Here, let me take that basket. Please, come in." we followed behind as she toddered into the house leading with the overstuffed basket. "If you'll just wait in the sitting room, I'll announce your visit." she offered, waving us into decently appointed little room that opened from the foyer. George and I took seats at angle from each other with not a word spoken between us. I noticed the portrait over the mantel, a well built gentleman sporting a mustache, a shotgun in hand while a spaniel stood dutifully at his feet. Below, placed in a row along the wooden mantelpiece were painted miniatures of four children (two on each side of a sizable clock), one still in its infancy. I stood and walk to the fireplace to get a better view. The first painting was of a girl, not more than ten years of age. I picked it up, holding it close to my eyes I recognized the features of the young woman from the shop - these must have been painted near eight years ago.

"Pardon me." a woman's voice startled me. I hurriedly attempted to place the small portrait in it spot but it fell over. I sought to right it, failing a second time. "Ahem." the woman coughed. I turned, attempting to block the fallen item with my back, to see a slender woman, her raven black hair almost the same shade as her black gown. Her face was stern, a bitter set to her lips told of a life of hardship, yet her features were still young. So plain did she appear in the long sleeved mourning gown as to give the impression of one of those Puritan women. This must be the sister. Were it the lady of the house I would imagine she would wear a mourning gown more suitable to the late July temperatures, but, were the sister not so well possessed it might very well be the only mourning gown she owned. I was amazed that this woman might be the mother of that comely flame headed minx from the grocery - they held no true feature in common; or perhaps it was merely the weariness on her face that caused the difference.

"Lucille," George stood, taking both the woman's hands in his own. "How are you faring?"

"I can hardly know. Danny's out searching but there has been no sign of her. Viola has gone distracted at the loss of her daughter and I fear I may soon share in her fate."

"We must keep the faith that she may still return to us."

"I have prayed, I have not ceased from praying - even as I stand before you my mind is imploring God's mercy upon my child. I have told myself there is still time, that she might yet be found."  
"When did you see her last?" I asked.

"I thought she had gone to bed early last night, but when we called her for breakfast, she- she did not come." the beleaguered woman burst into convalescing sobs. "When she didn't return this evening I feared she might have eloped with some sailor, she always loved the sea, her father was a sailor so I suppose it was in her blood and many of the officers were terribly fond of her, I wanted to believe it was true. Then the Constable told us Kate had perished, that they found her on the shore, that she may have been murdered. Please tell me it was an accident! Tell me she drowned! For I cannot bear the alternative." George lowered his eyes,

"We won't know until the doctor has had a chance to do an examination. I wish I could offer you more."

"Offer me some sense of hope that my Bessie may return to me!" she wailed.

"Lucille, where God is, there is always hope. We must have faith."

"How I want to believe that!"

"You must." the authority in George's voice caused the woman to come back to herself somewhat.

"Viola will want to see you, the Vicar has not yet been by and I believe you will be able to provide her with some comfort in her distress." George nodded and followed Bess's mother into the foyer and up the stair. I sat with only my thoughts and the ticking of the clock for some time before the silence was rent by the sound of a knock on the door. A moment later the maid shuffled to the door,

"Danny!" she cried. "Has she been found?"

"No." came the weary reply, the heavy plodding of boots announcing the man's entrance. "We'll start again tomorrow." Appearing in the doorway was a stout man, his leathery face hung in resignation and exhaustion. He hung his cap on the hall tree, revealing a head of sparse grey hair. "Don't announce me yet, I need to have a sit for a moment. Oh, and if you could, fetch me a cup of coffee." he turned to the entryway and jerked back, surprised. "And who might you be?"

"Oh, I am terribly sorry, Lady Moore!" the servant bustled in, now alerted to my continued occupation of the room. "You were so quiet I completely forgot you were still here. May I get you a cup of tea?"

"Given the circumstance, I believe it is forgivable. I'll have coffee as well, three scoops of sugar and a splash of cream." the maid disappeared behind the wall.

"Lady Moore?" the elderly man looked me over inquisitively.

"Yes, Mr. Smith has been kindly hosting me for the season."

"Seems the kindest thing he could do is send you back to where you came from. These days this town is no place for a Lady." he said somberly.

"So you are Danny? Lucille mentioned you were searching for her daughter."

"Our daughter." he emphasized the first word.

"Then you are Lucille's husband? The sailor?"

"I am her husband, but I never was a sailor. I'm a carpenter. The sailor was her first husband. I never met the bloke, died at sea leaving her destitute. I can't say I know much about him beyond that, she doesn't like to speak of him and I don't like to ask. I can't tell you the good fortune I had in finding a woman like that so late in my life. And she not older than eighteen with the sweetest little babe I ever did behold."

"How did you two meet?" I inquired, eager for an escape from the continued silence.

"She was in town visiting her sister. Now you see, William and I go back many years on account that I was his father's apprentice, and he came to my shop and said 'Danny boy,' that's what he called me - he said "Danny boy, I think I have finally found the woman that will make you settle down." Of course I laughed at him but he insisted I come to dinner to meet her. Oh she was lovely! Still is, if you ask me. Smart as a whip, modest, and well mannered, too. I was taken at the sight of her. Said she had been living in London, working at a factory to make money to care for her daughter - I asked her if she might like to live here, she said she would and I believe I was done for from that moment on. Don't think it was more than a month before I asked her to marry me. I still can't believe she accepted."

"Did you have any children?"

"No, my fault I suppose, though she blames herself. It's for the best, I suppose. Bess wasn't a natural birth, they say if the first one is that way the rest will be too. I'm sorry, I shouldn't be talking of such things with a Lady; I'm tired and I forgot myself."

"No offense was taken." I assured him. The maid bustled into the room with a tray upon which was perched two cups,

"Here you are, ma'am." she said, placing the coffee on the table next to me. "And for you, sir. May I get you anything else?"

"No, thank you."

"Not at the moment, Nell." Donald dismissed the woman.

"I am sorry for your family's loss. I do hope your daughter will be found."

"It'd be a lot easier if there weren't so many of those ruffians about. We've been to half the inns in Worthing and not a trace of her. I keep trying to hold out hope, but I know how men are. And she is the prettiest girl in all of Sussex. As long as she comes home, I don't care what's happened. I just want my little poppet safe."

"Are there any places she is particularly fond of? He mother spoke of a love for the sea."

"Yes, she'd spend hours at the shore - at least, until she grew old enough to care about her complexion; she was brown as a nut until she was twelve. Dark as she was and with that head of hair she looked more like a fairy than a girl. Katie was always one for the woods though - I'd imagine many a traveler believed he had accidentally crossed into the realm of the fair folk if he came upon the pair of them about their mischief. There was one time I was at a pub when this poor man came in, panting as though he had run all the way, said he had been bewitched by a pair of fairies in the forest. Said he thought he had heard the laughter of children so he followed the sound but it only kept moving further away the longer he followed until he realized he had left the path far behind with no idea where he had left it. When he looked down he saw he was standing in a fairy ring and then he heard the laughter above him. He looked up to see two fairies staring down at him from the trees giggling just as you please. Then they flew up into the higher branches where he could see them no longer. It was only then that he realized his cap had disappeared. The chaps and I listened intently to the story saying nothing, then I paid his tab, inquired as to where he was staying, and went home to retrieve his cap." I failed to stifle a laugh. "Course, that all stopped when they got older. I still am amazed how that troublesome sprite transformed into a young lady almost overnight. She's only nineteen and she's already had three proposals. None of them were worth a pence and I told them as much and she was just as unwilling to elope as two of those so-called gentlemen proposed. She's still just a girl, maybe in a few years, but for the time being she is far to preoccupied with balls and dances to be concerned with managing a household. I suppose Katie was the opposite in that regard, she only wanted to be married. But then so does everyone when they are in love. That was why we didn't raise the alarm when she vanished. We thought some bad might have come of her, but Bess swore up and down she had eloped with that shop boy - Shaw, I believe - she was always on about him, ever since he came back from boarding school; her parents suspected she was intentionally forgetting groceries just for the excuse to go see him again."

"When did she go missing?"

"Sunday, after services. Her mother said she went out to tend the horses and she never returned."

"No. After dinner William came around to fetch her, they thought she had gone off with Bess, you see, and simply stayed for supper. When we told him she had not been by all day we began to panic, what with Mira's death and all, we were about to go for the Constable but Bess stopped us. She told us Katie had eloped with the Shaw boy to Gretna Green - William was furious, with good reason. She pleaded with us to forgive her for not telling us Katie's plans. It was a queersome bit of business though, even then I thought it strange, William would never have objected to the union - a shop boy with an education and a head for numbers and letters would've been a fine choice to help with his business. And the Shaw's certainly could not have held any objections: Katie's a fine Christian girl from a good family."

"So there was no reason they should have eloped."

"Exactly, I couldn't figure it. I still can't. I wonder if someone grabbed her along the way to their meeting place." He held the cup in both hands and took a long pull from it.

"Did Bess know where they were meeting?" In truth, I doubted there had been a meeting ever set, at least, not by Russell Shaw. Russell had appeared genuinely baffled at her disappearance and ruined by her death. Had there been a plot he would have known, at the very least, she had not shown on the date and likely would have sought her out. He was not capable of guile enough to pull off such feigned ignorance.

"Maybe, if she did she never told, not that it mattered if they were in Scotland." Now, more than even before, we needed to find Bess - but I could not even begin to think how such a feat might be accomplished were she in Chapman's hands.

* * *

"Were you able to come up with any information?" Roger asked, kicking a hillock of sand as we stood facing the shore just above the place where the young woman's body had been found. I chafed my sleeves in an attempt to warm my arms against the misty chill of the morning.

"Some." I replied as we walked down to the disturbed patch of sand below. "It seems the murderer used a ruse to convince the young woman to meet him at a predetermined location some time after services on Sunday." Roger knelt down in the sand to examine the spot, probing a dark patch gently with his pen.

"Very clever, Mr. Chapman, have the woman come to you. What sort of ruse was it?" a small coin reveled itself from its sandy interment.

"An elopement with her sweetheart to Gretna Green."

"The very thing a young woman would be unlikely to reveal to anyone until after the fact."

"Well, he chose his victim poorly for she revealed all to her friend, Bess. That is why they failed to report the abduction."

"Very clever, indeed." Roger muttered. "Once the trap was sprung she had no hope of rescue, regardless. And Bess has disappeared as well?"

"Yes, she was discovered missing yesterday. She had last been seen the night before."

"Before the body of her friend was discovered?"

"Yes." He shifted position continuing to look over the sand.

"Might he go after a woman who was not blond?"

"I wish I could allay your fears by saying he would not, but I was inside his hut and of the many tokens he had taken only one belonged to a white person, just a child! The remainder were aborigines. The satisfaction of his lust is paramount to him, the victim is only a means to that end. That being said, his preferred type being plentiful, it is less likely he might."

"Kate was quite young, even younger than the previous victim."

"We have established his motive for murdering the older women; likely he is returning to type, and, with his scapegoat already in place, no longer feels the need to only go after the lesser elements of society. He may do as he pleases for the game is already set." He stood, wiping the sand from his trousers. He adjusted his cufflinks, looking down the line of the beach. Suddenly, he began walking along the sand quickly. I stumbled, having tried to get up and follow faster than the sand would allow, before managing to right myself and go after him.

"What is it?" I panted, trying my very best to keep up with his long stride through the sliding sand.

"Footprints."

"I don't see-" he stopped short. He pointed,

"There." I squinted at the sand, not seeing anything. Then, the gentle line of an arch appeared to me, so faint as to be near invisible. "Lambs are very light and easily lost - you did not think I spent my entire youth sitting in a soft chair and eating from a silver spoon." he smirked. I had never considered the idea before but i had to confess the latter portrait was far easier for me to conjure than that of a ruddy lad chasing lambs through bramble bushes. Halting a moment her pointed with his pen toward the pier. "The tracks come from the direction of the pier," he traced an invisible line to where the body had been discovered. "to the location of the body, and then continue off down the beach." the tip of his pen was parallel with the shore, pointing in the direction of Lancing. "The tracks were almost obliterated by those oafs of officers tromping around in their boots, but fortunately they managed, by some miracle, not to wholly crush them all."

"Then the person who made the tracks may be the culprit? Or the person who discovered the body?"

"No, on both accounts. The tracks of the person who discovered her followed the shoreline to her location and then went straight up, likely to fetch the police. As for Chapman, he was too clever to leave even a footprint - did you notice how the sand was swept from side to side going down the beach just above the tidal line?" I had to admit, I had not. "That was his path, he swept over it to conceal his passage. Not that Bobby's Boys would not have happily dashed it out of existence had he been so generous as to leave us a print." Roger spat bitterly.  
"Then who made the tracks?"

"Hard to say, but they may have seen something important that the police missed. Not that such a thing would be difficult." We followed the trail some distance, the footprints becoming more distinct the further along we went. They had transformed from only the vaguest outlines to the clear imprint of a small bare foot, it was delicate with a high arch, somewhat larger than that of a child but certainly not that of a grown chill of an unusually cold night left the beach bare of people, only these prints disturbed the sand. I quickened my pace, soon outstripping Roger - I felt an inward urgency driving me forward. The footprints now staggered, there was a depressed place in the sand where the person had fallen, signs that they had dragged themselves up onto their feet to stagger forward once more. The situation was dire: more than twenty four hours had passed since they had walked this path; if they were badly injured they may already have passed. In the distance I saw a row of bathing machines, sitting, abandoned for now, on the line of scrub grass; and above them the town of Lancing. I was running now, I needed no longer look to the sand to know my path - Roger saw it to, for he ran with me - the door of the third bathing machine was hanging slightly ajar. Arriving at the door he tore it open, I dove in, mounting the stairs without a second lost, embracing the tiny pale figure lying curled on the floor within.

"Bess!" I cried. Her skin was soaked, frozen to the touch. "Bess, wake up!" I urged, patting her cheeks. I started, they were burning hot! "James! She has a fever!" She stirred, her eyes slit open only so slightly, like a cat's, a rasping breath passed through her chapped lips,

"Kate, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Kate." A tear rolled across her hot cheek, her head lolled back as she lost consciousness again.

"Bess! Bess! Wake up! Bess!" I tried in vain to rouse her.

"She's been out all night!" Roger tore off his coat and wrapped it around her as though she were an infant. He easily lifted her, cradling her petite form in his arms. "We need to get her to a Doctor!"

* * *

The morning passed in a blur of hospital rooms and doctors. Just before noon the family arrived, the three remaining Thompson girls (miniatures of their lost sister) in tow. From my seat in the hall I watched as the youngest hid behind her mother's dress, unsure whether she should approach the bedside inwhich her cousin lay, pale as death. As evening approached, I saw a doctor speaking to Danny - I only knew him as such for I had not caught the family name - the Doctor pointed to me and spoke a few more words, unintelligible to me, though I could guess their content. The doctor placed a hand on Bess's forehead and nodded, a few more words passed before he left the room. Danny followed, stopping before my chair,

"The Doctor says she's out of the woods, but she needs to rest."

"Her fever?"

"It seems to have broken, thank the Lord. And thank you also, I owe you my eternal gratitude. I don't know how you managed to find her." he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"It was just by luck we happened to be walking in that direction."

"I'd call it a miracle. If that is the only prayer of mine God answers for the rest of my days I will still die a grateful man and call myself blessed. Now what became of that man who was with you?"

"Oh! Lord Norbert? He went home some hours ago."

"If you would, convey my thanks to him as well." I nodded. "God bless you, Miss Moore!" he exclaimed, grasping my hand tightly in both of his, "God bless you." He released me and turned back to his daughter's bedside.

I was glad to walk out of the hospital into the final warming rays of the evening sun. A sullen form leaned, shadowlike against the wall beside the entrance. "I thought you had gone home." I said, not looking at the man beside me.

"I had, but you were long in joining me, so I came to fetch you." I fought back a retort, choosing instead to continue walking. Roger caught up to my side,

"How is she?"

"She's resting."

"Was she injured?"

"Thankfully, no. I would guess the shock of finding her friend murdered combined with the exertion of the walk and the cold night caused her fever."

"When do you think she will be able to speak with us?"

"It is hard to make such a conjecture. No earlier than Monday, I would guess."

"Tomorrow we should have a look at the body, I imagine you are in no condition to visit the morgue this evening." The body. Always the body. The body had a name - it was Kate, or Katie to her relations. I suppose it must be 'the body', for him for he has known many. But still, she was Kate. I did not want to forget her as the girl at the shop. The one who had been young and foolish and so in love she lost her sensibility and it cost her her life.

"It would be best to go today." I replied as we walked.

"No." Roger stopped.

"The longer we wait the further gone the evidence will be." I argued.

"Mina, you have been up all night, you're exhausted. I'm exhausted. You are not even able to stand without wavering. If we go now we may miss seeing something important - we need fresh eyes. I promise you, first thing tomorrow we will go; but not tonight. Bess is out of danger, that is what is important." I tried to object but instead had to put my foot forward to brace myself against a sudden loss of balance. He was correct, I could not even stand. I suddenly felt terribly tired, as though I might fall asleep merely from standing in place for too long. "I'll call a cab." he raised his hand to signal a little black coach,

"No, I can walk." but the very idea of such exertions filled me with a deep sense of dread.

"I regret to say I lack your endurance and I would prefer you not walk alone. So, for my benefit, would you please accompany me?" he requested as the cab rolled toward us.

"If you insist." I acquiesced with a wan smile (the most I could manage in my current state), glad he had chosen not to force me to eat my pride by attempting the long walk home but took the blame for needing a cab onto himself - the more I considered the idea of the long walk, the more impossible it seemed given all that had occurred.

"I do insist." he said, helping me up the stair. That was the last memory of the ride home I had, for I must have fallen asleep as soon as I settled on the bench.


	14. Chapter 14

I awoke the following morning to the pleasant sound of songbirds chirping and no recollection as to how I had gotten there, stunned to find myself lying in bed rather than sitting in the cab. I recalled stepping into the coach as vividly as though it had happened only a moment ago, should I not be sitting on the bench? The memory hung vividly about me like the finally dying moments of a dream before it was forgotten. Or was it a dream? Had my mind concocted the murder, the rescue while I slept? Heroics borne of the reordering of memories, of faces stolen - if it had been such, why could it not have revealed the identity of the killer? I had heard of dreams possessing such supernatural abilities. Perhaps my last true action was in finishing my letter to Millie. I allowed myself to live in these thoughts for a few minutes longer - for truly waking would reveal whether they were fiction or fact and at the moment I willed they be fiction - at this moment, and this one alone, could they still be so were they to prove fact. I lay, enjoying the slowly rising warmth of morning, contemplating a return to slumber even as my body became more aware of its surroundings. My covers fell around my neck, far too high for my preference given the warm summer weather. Slowly I realized how oppressively hot it was becoming, it felt too close, too tight. I sat, throwing off the blanket. I was still dressed in the same clothes I had worn yesterday - or had I worn them for two days now? My boots were still laced to my feet! I reached down to unlace them, wincing from the gritty feel of the sand encrusted strings. So it was not a dream. I must have fallen asleep in the coach and Roger had carried me in. I smiled in the satisfaction of knowing that it must have been a good deal more difficult than the last time he had carried me. I would have to prepare, it had to be at least seven by now, we should have left for the morgue and hour ago. There was time, I knew, the family likely would not retrieve the body until after services, if at all today - but I should like to have as much of the day as might be managed to work in and now an hour of it was lost. People were already probably hearing of the news from last night gossip spread in the name of public interest with every lurid detail embellished by the teller, particularly those details yet unknown; already the sight of the grisly discovery had likely been destroyed by the curious in order to satisfy their ghoulish bend. I started to make my toilet finally peeling off those clothes I had not been out of in two days. George would be with the other Salvationists, perhaps at Montague Hall, or at the Barracks - I hadn't thought to ask. But then, when would I have had the time to do so? Perhaps Thursday, before Roger's arrival, before Kate's death and Bess's disappearance. Three days! It felt like a month! Or else some long never ending day punctuated only by sleep. A knock at the door startled me,

"Philomena, are you awake yet?"

"You have ears, Roger, you know very well I am." I don't know why but this morning found me quite unequal to the task of tolerating the man.

"May I come in?" At least he had the decency to ask for once. It was not as though he had never seen me in my dressing gown, still, I was in no mood to entertain him where propriety dictated only a spouse should be allowed.

"No, I am not decent yet."

"I'll start a pot of tea, then." No argument? No pout? No 'It's nothing I have not seen before?' And instead making tea? Who was this new Roger? I rushed the remainder of my preparations easily completing them by the time the tea kettle whistled.

I descended the stairs slowly. My boots were far too filthy to wear without cleaning (a task I neither had time nor inclination for) forcing me to instead wear a pair of heeled dress shoes mother had insisted I take on the chance I might be invited to a ball. They were not especially comfortable, owing to their lack of use, and felt foreign to my feet without the comforting laces running tightly along my calf. It felt as though, at any moment, they threatened to abandon my feet and send me toppling down to the floor below. I had thought to wear my slippers, but their thin soles would be quickly devoured by the rough roads of town. Roger glanced up from where he was setting the tea, "Ah, there you are, did you sleep well?"

"I suppose so, though I have no recollection of it. I was quite surprised to find myself in bed." I said, taking my seat on the sofa.

"I would have woken you had that proved possible, but your language when I attempted it gave me pause - something to the effect that I would pay for the infraction with my life." I stuck out my lower lip as I contemplated the words, my tea held just below my chin. I nodded,

"That sounds correct." I took a sip of my tea. "Jam sandwiches for breakfast?"

"I was fortunate to find even those things after you emptied the pantry into that basket."

"It couldn't be helped, it was our best chance of gaining an interview with them." I sampled the corner off the little triangular sandwich.

"I don't deny the food went to a good cause; I am merely saying you might have left the eggs."

"Ugh, I would sooner eat nothing than another egg!"

"Well, you were very nearly granted your wish. How is the tea?"

"You forgot the dash of cream." I answered before taking another sip.

"I will make note of it for the future. So we are to visit the morgue today?"

"Yes, and then I must call on the Shaw family."

"You seemed to be familiar with that shop boy." I did not take kindly to his suggestive tone.

"It is not what you think it to be."

"Then do enlighten me as to his part in your investigation." he replied with raised brows.

"Must everything be scandal to you? He was a participant in the Skeleton Army, I disguised myself as a man and pretended to be a former classmate of his from boarding school. He assisted in allowing me to gain entrance to their meeting."

"You do realize that would still qualify as scandalous?"

"Only mostly. But not nearly so much so as what you suggested." He took a slow sip from his cup,

"I suggested nothing of the sort." I flushed deeply.

"Well you certainly implied it."

"Implied what, might I ask?" We had not even set out and already I was furious with that man - how I wish I had the courage waking I apparently had when asleep.

"It is of no import."

"I doubt he will be of much use to you now, seeing as he has joined with the Salvationists."

"He was familiar to the murdered woman. He may still possess some information in her regard."

"Am I to assume he was the beau she meant to elope with?"

"Yes, you guess correctly."

"I am certain he shall welcome your comfort in his time of sorrow." he raised a brow provokingly.

"Actually, it is his grandmother I am going to visit." Roger placed his tea on the table,

"Why do I find that difficult to believe?"

"You may believe whatever you wish, it will not alter the facts."

"No, but they do tend to alter themselves where young men and women are involved."

"Why Roger, I do believe this is the first time you have ever called me a woman." For only a second he appeared disconcerted, as if he had not considered the words before they had been spent, but just as quickly he recovered himself - or had it happened at all? Perhaps it was merely a trick of the steam.

"I do apologize for the error, I will make a note of it for the future. Children are always so very perceptive." he finished with a vicious grin. "Anyhow, if you are ready, we might be going." I quickly finished my third sandwich triangle, downed the remainder of tea, and stood,

"Quite ready."

"I don't think you would want your beau to see you eat in such an unladylike manner." he teased sharply, as he opened the front door for me.

"Then I shall be glad it is only you here, and thus no one worthy of attempting to make a good impression upon." I cut back gracing him with an arch smile as I walked through to the outside.

* * *

The balding little man with the spectacles viewed us drowsily as we stood before him at the door to his house. "May I help you?" he asked, squinting from the bright morning sun.

"Yes, if you would be so kind, we require entrance into the morgue." I answered as politely as might be managed; Roger rubbed his hand, sore from knocking at the door. The man released a deep sigh,

"If you'll wait a moment." he retreated into his house. For a few moments I heard the sound of shuffling papers, then he returned handing Roger the keys, "Lock up after you finish and put the keys through the mail slot." he mumbled and shut the door in our faces. Roger shrugged,

"Well you can't fault him for his efficiency."

"I suspect we woke him up." I opined as we began toward the old building where Kate slumbered as yet undisturbed.

"Now whatever could have given you that suspicion?"

"Possibly the nightshirt and slippers, but I admit, my conjecture could be wrong." Perhaps it was merely to break the tension of the past few days, but we both broke into laughter. "Now stop!" I cried, unable to follow my own command. "This is hardly becoming behavior for a walk to the morgue." The ridiculousness of the scenario when put so bluntly only increased our laughter. "No, seriously, we must." I panted.

"If you - if you insist." his aspect instantly changed. It was as though he had never laughed at all. I felt a chill run through me as he turned his hawk-like gaze to me, "If you are quite done let us be going." I nodded, doubtful I could laugh again even had I wanted to.

We entered the morgue, passing once more by the door with the heavy lock into the examination room. On the table lay a young blond woman, body covered by a white cloth, I supposed to be Kate - though it lacked any recognizable quality of the vivacious beauty I had witnessed at the grocery. But then, the dead never truly resemble the living. "is it the woman?"

"Yes," I replied. "It is Catherine Thompson."

"Then we had best get started." he whispered - as if there were any danger of rousing someone! I pulled the sheet back toward the young woman's toes, folding it over at her knees. The sight was so familiar by now I could not feel any true shock from it. I picked up the hand turning it over to reveal the imprint of the crucifix on the palm, the back striated from the knotted cord. Dried blood from her straining to break the bonds peppered the marks. Her arms and legs were striped by the same superficial incisions as the other women. The deep rose tint of the skin, indicative of pooled blood within the body, was absent. I attempted to roll her to her side but found myself unequal to the task.

"Roger, if you would assist me?" I asked. He winced, "Roger, I can't move her myself." He sighed heavily, but complied, and together we were able to get a glimpse underneath the woman. Just beside her shoulder blade was a deep knife wound, I could see the jagged flesh from where he had twisted the blade to a right angle from the initial entry to further open the artery. "If it can provide any consolation, she would have gone quick." I examined the striations on the limbs - "Much quicker than usual, actually. These incisions are completely dry." I lifted the arm to show the clean white lines around the forearm.

"Perhaps he was in a hurry."

"That does appear to be the case. Though why I cannot even conjecture. We are only talking a matter of minutes." Roger started blankly at the wall, deep in thought.  
"But a matter of minutes can become an hour with ease... it was a risk he could not afford to take..."

"Because of the tide!" I finished.

"If he wanted to utilize the high tide while at the same time minimizing the risk of discovery he would only have had a small window of time in which to operate. But then why did it have to be Friday night? Why not wait until Saturday or Sunday?" I pondered the question for a moment, my hand wrapped around my chin, elbow balanced on the opposite palm. There was something Russell had said, it tantalized the edge of my consciousness until suddenly it burst forth in revelation,

"Bess! Russell told us she visited the shop Friday afternoon. She was Kate's closest friend; when she realized Russell was in Worthing yet Kate was not, she would have known something had gone amiss with the elopement. Chapman must have seen her."

"So he would have had to dispose of his victim as quickly as possible or else risk discovery. I believe I owe you a proper breakfast."

"It will have to be an early lunch, I'm afraid. I don't want to miss services." I covered the unfortunate girl once more - she looked like a child being tucked into bed. I shuddered at the comparison.

"It is only one Sunday - I'm quite sure God will allow one missed in the service of capturing a murderer."

"He may, but I believe you are forgetting our main suspects will likely be less liberal on the concept of skipping church."

"Ah, yes. Cadets Kitt and Hartnett - I should like to get a look at them, myself. Are we done here, then?"

"I believe so."

"That is a relief. Let us be off then."

* * *

Despite out late arrival, we had little trouble locating seats in the back row. The speaker continued, unabated, as we sat - those before us took no note of our presence, save for Hartnett, who leaned his lithe form against the wall watching us intently. I felt not unlike a hen under the withering stare of the fox.

"Who is that man?" Roger whispered, jerking his head slightly toward Hartnett though there was no need for the motion, I knew precisely whom he meant.

"Cadet Kenneth Hartnett."

"He doesn't appear too welcoming."

"No, he does not."

"Which one is Mr. Kitt?"

"The large man standing beside Lt. Smith." I pointed slightly. Roger nodded,

"Not a very likely looking fellow is he?"

"I can guarantee his conversation will confirm your suspicions."

"Yet you suspect him?"

"He has the ability and opportunity and no one can confirm that he did, indeed live here before last year, few others in this lot could have the same said of them."

"But for Hartnett who claims he was with the Army in Africa."

"He certainly has been somewhere where there was a great deal of sun."

"Shhhh" a woman behind us hissed.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am." I apologized. "We will have to continue this conversation later." I whispered, primly folding my hands in my lap and sitting up straight to watch the speaker.

* * *

"One thing I have never understood," I mused, trailing a chip along on my plate as I admired once more the quaint decor of the Rose and Crown.

"What is that." Roger replied, taking in another forkful of golden battered fish.

"Why the Rosaries? There's been no mention of any Papist ties to his family. What could they represent?" He shot me a look as if to chastise me for my stupidity,

"His mother, of course."

"His mother?"

"His mother was a strict, punitive, uncompromising woman obsessed with appearances, wealth, and rank. He views the Catholic church as holding the same values which are represented by the Rosary. He binds the hands of the women with the Rosary in the same way he believed his own hands, his desires and aspirations were bound by her. In a very real sense each woman is the symbolic representation of his mother and her ruin and murder at his hands. Which is essentially what he wrought upon her - their family name was ruined after his flat was discovered."

"Miss Moore, what a surprise to see you here!" and oily voice from behind declared.

"How do you do, Mr. Hartnett?"

"I saw you at the meeting, truth be told I could not look away." he said, ignoring my question. "You are radiant as the sun today."

"Beware Icarus, I do believe you fly too close." he raised an eyebrow.

"And who might this gentleman be?"

"Lord Roger Norbert, he is a family friend."

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Norbert."

"Thank you, Mister... Hartnett, was it?

"Lt. Kenneth Hartnett, recently returned from Africa. Though here I serve as a Cadet in a rather different Army, the cause is no less worthy." he answered, tipping his hat slightly.

"I never cared for the military myself, rather savage business that." Roger replied, his voice now assumed that familiar higher pitch of his Noble persona. "Nor these Salvationists. They are far too undignified. Give me the pomp and gravity of the Church of England any day." Hartnett could not conceal a scowl at Roger's reply.

"And what business are you in, if I might be so bold as to ask?"

"Agriculture, mostly."

"And otherwise?"

"I don't see how that is your concern."

"It is not, only you looked familiar for a moment."

"I do spend a fair amount of time in London, perhaps that is it."

"Perhaps." Hartnett conceded, eyeing the man suspiciously. "What brings you to Worthing?"

"I happened to be close to the area on business, I'm purchasing a pair of Guernsey cows from the Island."

"Then why are you not there?" by his pointed tone it was quite clear Hartnett would prefer my companion to be significantly less present.

"I suffer terribly from seasickness. Besides, if they are perfectly willing to bring the beasts to me, why should I expend the effort."

"I would think you would have chosen to stay at a major port."

"Well I would have, but I was told Miss Moore was in the area so I decided to visit her."

"You must have had quite the challenge in attaining lodging."

"Not at all! Mr. Smith is a countryman of mine, he was only too glad to welcome me into his home."

"So you are staying with Lt. Smith, then?"

"Yes, and it suits me perfectly well; though I do miss having a staff about me to attend to my needs."

"Maggie! A glass of port for the lady and I." Hartnett hollered to the barmaid. "And one... well whatever your having." he addressed Roger's choice with distaste.

"Scotch."

"One scotch!"  
"Pardon me, but I believe the Lady doesn't care for wine."

"She was perfectly amenable to it the other day." I blushed to match the wine before me.

"And what do you mean to suggest by that?" Roger's false temper flared - his acting was truly remarkable, his rage had all the appeared fury and impotence of a rat terrier.

"Merely making an observation."

"Miss Moore, did this man attempt to ply your favor with wine?" I could not speak for my embarrassment, I managed to nod in assent.

"How dare you, sir! Attempting to seduce a young lady! And one already spoken for! I should demand satisfaction." Roger stood so fast his chair would have toppled to the floor had I not caught it. "At the very least I will inform the police of your misconduct."

"I never attempted such a thing!" Hartnett was astonished by the accusation. "It was simply a misunderstanding. I did not know she was your fiance." I sunk my face into my palm - my humiliation complete. At least there would be no question as to why I might be led astray from such a fop.

"She is not my fiance, but the future wife of my dearest friend, Mr. Underhill. I am to be the best man at their wedding." There was no need to bring Quentin into this scenario - I began to suspect Roger was having a great deal of fun at my expense.

"I meant no harm by it." the bewildered Hartnett attempted.

"I believe you should be going, sir. Or I may be forced to cause a scene." My dear Roger, you are already causing one. I thought, shaking my head which was still firmly in hand.

"Yes, if you'll excuse me, Miss Moore." he managed a quick bow to me and hurriedly left the pub.

"Really, Miss Moore? Port Wine?" Roger taunted, returning to his seat and dabbing the corners of his mouth with his napkin before draining the remainder of his drink.

"I did not know it was so strong."

"My dear, you really are still a child." I wished to object but found I could not without proving his point. "Anyhow, we should be going if we intend to follow him."

"Follow him?" I repeated as Roger placed my shawl around my shoulders.

"He paid you an unexpected housecall, don't you think it is time we returned the favor? If he has anything to hide he will be returning home now to dispose of it in case I should call on the Constable." I smiled,

"You are a clever one. But must you have brought Quentin into it?"

"If the only thing keeping you from being the future Mrs. Underhill is the small matter of his proposing, then there is no harm in my statement. However, if I have assessed the situation incorrectly and you intend to refuse him then you may contradict me and I will offer you my humblest apologies." He said as we started down the street. I kept silent, staring at the paving stones as we walked on. He looked over to me and raised his brows, "So, you do intend to accept him?"

"I did not say that."

"No, but neither did you refute it."

"He just turned up Graham st. We had best hurry if we don't wish to lose him." I interjected, jogging ahead so as to avoid further queries.

We followed Mr. Hartnett less than a mile before he turned to go through the wrought iron gates leading to a greasy tenement building that had once been white but now was only a dingy grey but for the black below the casements and roof where the elements could not reach to wash away the filth. Cracks wound their way, vinelike, up the plastered walls from the foundation. In it's day it had likely been an object of pride for its owners, but time had worn away its shine until it was little more than a decrepit slum. Roger and I stood behind the high stone wall which separated the property from the street, waiting, in the hopes that Mr. Hartnett would soon disseminate his secrets to the rubbish pile. We waited some time for him to reappear, yet there was no movement from the house. A faintly acrid scent wafted on the wind, lovely and warm, bringing to mind crisp Autumn evenings. I glanced to the skyline, watching a faint stream of smoke rising from a chimney of the tenement, strange that someone would have a fire going midday in the stifling summer heat...

"Roger!" I cried, pointing toward the smoke.

"Damnation! He's burning the evidence!"

"What are we to do?"

"You need to go up there and see if there's anything to be salvaged."

"Go up there! While he's still inside? Are you mad?" I balked, incredulous.

"Yes, or we lose everything! You knew the risks when you joined - we cannot allow him to dispose of any proof we might have to tie him to the case! I'll be just outside, if you get into trouble you need only scream and I'll come running."

"What am I to say?"

"You'll think of something - anything! I don't know, he likes you, seduce him."

"Seduce him!"

"Or flirt or whatever it is you women do to gain the favor of foolish men - just go!" he demanded, veritably shoving me through the gate onto the cement walkway leading into the building. I brushed my dress down and walked toward the building. The smoke had appeared to be coming from the southwestern corner of the tenement, I didn't know whether I should hope for a person manning the front desk or not for I had been humiliated quite enough this day without adding the scandal of visiting a man, alone, in his apartment. But then, I had no way of knowing what floor Hartnett resided on. I silently cursed Roger more colorfully than usual (using every word Chet had ever uttered in his drunken stupors) as I pulled open the large, glass inlaid, wooden door. There was a large wooden desk next to the stairwell, but it had been abandoned - likely it had not been occupied for days judging from the undisturbed film of dust resting upon it.

"Miss Moore! Whatever brings you here?" Hartnett peered past me down the hallway as if checking that I was not accompanied. "Did you come alone."

"Yes..." I answered awkwardly. "Yes, I wished to apologize for my friend's behavior. He tends to become very... overprotective."

"It was truly a misunderstanding, had I known you were spoken for I would not have asked you to lunch."

"You were not at fault, for you had no way to know of it. We have not yet formally announced the engagement." I said haltingly. "I should have told you... Kenneth." the employment of his name had an immediate effect upon his demeanor, his jaw slackened, his gaze softened, yet once more those eyes seemed to be calculating an equation I should wish to remain ignorant of.

"Do come in Miss Moore." He said with a flourish of his hand toward the interior room. "We should not speak out here at length, there are untoward people about who would just as soon cut your throat as your purse." I stepped into the room, my legs shaking so that I found it difficult to walk. I felt Hartnett's large, nimble-fingered hand press against my back between the shoulders - I had to swallow hard to stifle the scream which rose in my throat. Hartnett must have felt my muscles tense at his touch for he added, "You have nothing to fear from me, Miss Moore - I have no intention of doing you any harm." Carefully he steered me toward a sitting area in the corner of the apartment, as far from the fireplace as could be managed, furnished with two ancient chairs that had likely once been fine but now their upholstery was stained and tattered. The window above the rose patterned chair was open just a crack (I suspected that was as far as it could possibly be opened) allowing the summer breeze to waft in - though it did nothing to mitigate the stifling heat produced by the fire. "If you would have a seat." he offered, making a sweeping gesture with his hand.

"I will stand, thank you." Even had I not desired to retain the ability to run at a moment's notice, I still would not have wished to seat myself in one of those repulsive chairs.

"Would you care for a cup of tea?" he turned toward the antique stove.

"No thank you."

"Well, I believe I will have a cup; if you don't mind." He turned his back to me as he poured the cup, taking advantage of his position I crossed to the fireplace. Therein, fully engulfed in flame, almost beyond recognition was a packet of documents and part of a knotted cord. I fought back the urge to reach into the conflagration to pluck them out - I was too late! "Are you cold?" Hartnett's breath blew warmly in my ear. He had come beside me so silently he might have simply materialized from thin air. I hugged my body to hide the effects of such a start,

"Yes, I'm afraid I may be coming down with something. Are you not hot, having a fire in the middle of such a hot Summer day?"

"Is it hot? I hadn't noticed. I suppose I still haven't adjusted to the English weather. Come, I'll move the chairs to the fireplace so we might sit and chat." He passed in between myself and the fire, circling around as he walked so that I found myself, without even being aware of it, turned away from the fire as he fetched the chairs (one in each hand) from the corner.

"Truthfully, I cannot remain long. Lord Norbert will worry if I am not soon home, I only told him I had a quick errand at the postal office." I shot a glance over my shoulder, back to the fireplace; just in time to witness the gleaming gold of a miniature braid before it was devoured by bright orange strands of flame. The little braid had not been there only moments before, of that I was certain! He must have tossed it in when he blocked the fireplace from my view.

"Miss Moore, why did you come here?" I felt his body standing so close behind me, almost touching me, his breath warm against my neck as he spoke.

"To apologize for my friend's boorish behavior."

"Is that really the only reason?" I swallowed hard,

"Yes."

"I think not, Miss Moore." He pivoted around me, now his face was only inches from my own. His light brown eyes tenderly locked my own in their gaze. I could feel my heart race. The fire popped loudly, "But I am sorry to report you will not find what you seek here." he turned and, picking up the poker, began to stir the fire.

"Kenneth?" I took a step closer to where he now stood. He stiffened, almost imperceptibly, at the sound of his name. He jammed the poker deep into the glowing ashes, sending a shower of sparks flying,

"Now, Miss Moore, you had best be off before I lose my resolve." He warned through gritted teeth. He turned a flashing eye toward me, a wicked grin revealing his sharp canines "And then, I fear, you would be long delayed indeed."

Once free of the apartment I ran as fast as my legs would allow down the stair and through the courtyard where Roger waited. I did not stop till I had rounded the corner and stood beside him, hand over my throbbing heart, gasping for breath. "Well?" Roger raised his brows in inquiry.

"He burned it." I panted. "Everything! I was too late!"

"Damnation! So then there is nothing to link him to the crimes?" I shook my head, unable to speak for want of air. "What did you see?"

"Papers, envelopes, a piece of cord with a knot - but I could not tell you for certain what they were."

"Was there anything else?"

"Yes," my breath was coming more regularly but still my chest burned. "While we were speaking he threw a braid of blond hair onto the fire. I only just saw it before it was consumed."

"You think it to belong to one of the murdered girls?"

"I am almost certain of it."

"So, we have our murderer but no evidence to link him to the crimes."

"But I saw-"

"You saw what, exactly? Papers being burned with content you could not read? A possible lock of hair being immolated? With such damning testimony it is more likely we would be charged with slander than he with murder. Have some sense, Miss Moore!"

"Then what are we to do?"

"The only thing we can do, wait and watch until he makes a mistake."

"But more women could die if we do nothing!" I protested.

"And what might we do? If we report him to the police with no evidence when he is allowed to go free he will disappear once more and the slayings will continue. Or would you shoot him? Arrange a little accident? Then the police will still seek the murderer and an innocent man may hang for the crimes a dead man committed." I hung my head, he was correct - even with all we knew, our hands were tied.

"What are we to do then?" I asked miserably.

"I will keep watch on Mr. Hartnett; and you, my dear, will be calling on the Shaw family."

"My goodness! The Shaws! I completely forgot!"

"Are you certain you are twenty-two? One would think you scarcely sixteen the way you speak sometimes." I glowered at him. "Well, get a move on; you don't want to be late to see your beau."

* * *

My heart had scarcely stopped racing by the time I had reached the Shaw's house, a considerable distance away. I could still see the man standing before the fireplace with that villainous grin, looking every part the devil within. What had Mr. Hartnett meant when he said he might lose his resolve? How close had I truly been to mortal peril? I shuddered in spite of the oppressive warmth. It seemed the pleasant breeze of morning had vanished, leaving the city to bake under the hot midafternoon sun. I swished my dress trying to create something of a breeze to little effect. I was relieved to finally arrive at the door of the Shaw's modest abode where the darkened windows portended cool shade within. I dropped the knocker twice; no sooner had it clattered a second time upon the flat bronze than the door opened, revealing Russell, cloaked in shade. "Come in, Miss Moore. I apologize, Gran isn't home yet - we did not expect you so early." His eyes were still rimmed with red, eyelids puffy from a night spent in a manner he would never confess.

"Do you know when she is expected home?" I inquired, entering the house.

"No, I thought they would be home by now. She said she had a few errands to run was all - I offered to do them for her, but she would not hear of it." So Roger had correctly assessed the situation, I thought with great displeasure. "Mother's in the back bedroom, but she says she is far too ill to take visitors."

"I am able to wait, if it is no trouble for you."

"No, none!" a bit of that eager boyishness shone through for a moment. "I can have Molly put a kettle on if you would like some tea." Despite my long walk in the heat, a cup of tea sounded like ambrosia.

"I would adore a cup, thank you." Russell contorted himself around the corner,

"Molly! Could you make us some tea?" he hollered. I could not help but smile at his sincere, if rough, attempt at manners; so drastic a departure from what I had only just experienced. "Would you like to have a seat in the parlour? I know it's not what you're used to..."

"It will suit me just fine. Thank you, Russell." His ruddy face turned a dusky shade of rose. I clapped a hand over my mouth - I had done it again! "I am sorry, you must think me quite ill-mannered." I apologized. "It is only just-" he held up a hand to stop me.

"You don't have to apologize. Honestly, I'm not offended. I sort of prefer it. This house has three Mr. Shaw's; it's nice to know I have a kind of distinction among them." Now it was my turn to blush. He led me into a rather sizable sitting room, taking his seat across the squat little coffee table from me. The maid, who I took to be Molly, bustled in with the tea tray, serving each of us a cup. I sipped my tea gratefully, enjoying the warm sensation of the steam as it caressed my cheeks. "How is you tea? Is it to your liking?" Russell asked, anxiously. It was weak and would certainly have benefited from the addition of sugar and cream yet,

"It is delicious." I replied.

"I'm glad to hear it." Silence overtook us while we drank. Finally, I put my empty cup down on the table. "Oh, let me have Molly get you another cup."  
he bumbled. I held up my hand,

"No, thank you, for the moment I am fine." We looked at each other, then quickly away as though trying to avoid the gaze of the other. Finally, Russell, staring into his cup of tea, broke the silence,

"I- I wanted to thank you... for finding Bess."

"I..." I wanted to tell him the same as the others, that it had been mere luck, that it was really nothing - but the sincerity of his expression stopped me, "You're welcome. I am glad she will recover."

"I can't imagine what she was doing out on that beach so far from home, you know?"

"I suppose you'll have to ask her."

"Mum says she won't talk about it."

"She may, in time."

"I doubt it, but then, you don't know Bess."

"I know a little from the accounts I have heard. I know she was very close with Miss Thompson." Russell winced. "I'm sorry, I know you were familiar with her. I didn't mean to cause you any pain."

"It's no matter. I don't want to avoid talking about her as though she didn't exist just because it hurts. She was a sweet girl, you know, always comin' to the shop maybe three days a week, with Bess in tow, of course. She changed so much after I went to school - I could hardly recognize her without mud on her face, she was practically a boy - and here I come back and she's transformed into this beauty with all the boys fussing over who would walk with her or carry her bags but she wouldn't give 'em the time of day, she'd only walk with me. Came up to me the third day I was back and asked if I might help her with a bag of sugar - it wasn't much, weighed less than nothing and she had no other bags, but I carried it all the way home for her. I suppose she was sweet on me - it feels arrogant to say so now but knowing it made me feel like maybe... like maybe I was worth something more in this world; pretty girl like her sweet on me! Who'd have thought it? Can't say I know what she saw in a bloke like me: a shop boy! And her the daughter of a successful businessman - she could have been a society girl like you, you know? She could have come out. Not Bess though, and, of course, Kate wouldn't come out without her. Couldn't have one without the other. I fancied, maybe, it was a bit because of me, too. But then, I think I flatter myself too much." I dearly wished I could tell him how deeply she had felt for him - but then, such a revelation would only cause him greater pain to know that the deception that had lured her to her death had been accomplished in his name.

"Did you like her as well?" I probed.

"Like her? Yes. I liked her very much - I think, I think I loved her. I guess I know I did. I didn't think there was any real hurry, though. I mean, I didn't have much to my name. Not nearly enough to support a wife. Maybe in a year or two. I wasn't really ready to think about marrying; I suppose I always just assumed it'd be her. And now... it's like I've become unmoored. I feel like a rowboat bobbing up and down in the middle of the ocean." he stared miserably at his teacup. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to put all of that on you. I cannot imagine what is keeping Gran."

"I don't mind. A life such as hers deserves to be acknowledged. But if you wouldn't mind, I do believe I should like another cup of tea before you continue, for I would like to hear more but I am terribly parched." He managed a smile,

"Molly! Might we have more tea?"

* * *

It was quite dark by the time Russell walked me back to the house on Salisbury St. "Thank you for calling, I know Gran was very pleased to have you stay for dinner."

"I don't think I would have had the chance to visit with her had I not."

"She was rather late." he chuckled shyly.

"Mr. Shaw, she arrived home half past six! 'Rather' is not the word I would use; I should say 'extraordinarily' is far more fitting under the circumstances."

"But do you begrudge it of her?"

"No. The conversation was good, though."

"It was, wasn't it?" he favored me with a half smile. "I hope Rev. Smith won't be too put out that we kept you so long."

"No, I think he'll be glad for it - he's had little opportunity for a rest as of late"

"I've never had a real conversation with a Lady, it was not nearly so dreadful as I had heard."

"Oh please, do not judge all Ladies by my example - I swear to you they can be every bit as dreadful and insipid as you have been led to believe, even moreso when there are no Gentlemen about." Finally, a true laugh emerged from him,

"So you say I've merely had a poor sampling?"

"Terribly poor!" I laughed. "Why, I'm not certain you could have been more greatly misled as to our nature. We're really quite formidable beasts. Just as soon tear you to ribbons as look at you."

"Then I should be glad it was you I met rather than them." I flushed,

"Russell..." I hesitated,

"Yes?" he turned his soft hazel eyes to mine, for a moment I found myself foundering for words.

"Lord Norbert and I intend to visit Bess in the hospital tomorrow after noon; you are welcome to join us if you like."

"No, I don't think I'm quite ready to see her yet. Maybe after the funeral, when she's home."

"I do understand. Thank you for walking me home."

"Well, Gran would have never forgiven me had I let a young Lady walk home alone at night."

"Just the same." I offered him my hand, which he took politely. "Goodnight Russell." I said haltingly.

"Goodnight Miss-" I could not say what compelled me to it, but as he was speaking, I rose to my tip toes and placed a kiss upon his cheek. "...Moore." he stared, bewildered, rubbing the spot as I turned on my heel and let myself into the house.

Entering the house, I was bathed in the warm glow of a single lamp giving light to the man who quietly sat in his green wingback chair; a cup of tea set on the table beside, no longer steaming, likely gone cold from want of attention. George peered up from his newspaper, "Lord Norbert has turned in for the night."

"I'm glad of it. I believe he forgets even he needs to sleep occasionally." I supplied.

"I trust you had a pleasant visit with the Shaw family?"

"Quite pleasant." I replied, filling the kettle with water and placing it upon the stove. "Though Mrs. Shaw was somewhat delayed in town and did not return until supper."

"I trust you had a proper meal then?"

"Yes, their maid is an enviable cook."

"She is that. Will you be taking your tea in your room, then?" The newspaper rustled as he turned the pages, continuing to peruse its contents.

"If you would not mind the company, I should prefer to take it down here."

"You are welcome to join me, if you wish."

We sat for some time in a comfortable silence as he read while I sipped my tea.

"I have wondered for some time, why are you not a Captain?" I mused absently, taking a sip from my cup. George folded his newspaper placing it on the table beside him, he drew in a deep breath,

"I suppose Mrs. Shaw mentioned it."

"Among others."

"It's not a tale I am particularly fond of recounting; I suppose it is only natural people regard it as curious."

"If you do not wish to tell me, I do understand. It is a personal matter, afterall. I was only wondering."

"No, I will tell you, but you must promise to keep it between us. There has already been enough damage done from want of discretion - I do not wish to do further harm than I already have."

"I promise." I answered. He bent forward, resting his elbows on knees, his hands clasped before him, and began,

"Many years ago a young woman in my congregation whom I had known from childhood came to me in private, in her shame she confessed she had known one of the soldiers who had arrived with the regiment. I asked her if the man had enticed her with promises to marry, she told me he had not and that the man had since departed for a foreign land. She was dreadfully sorry for her transgressions, she begged for some assurance that God might forgive her; but I did not give it, instead, I dismissed her. I revealed her secret to the elders of the congregation, even knowing more than one was prone to gossip. I believed I did this for the good of my flock - that this young woman had revealed herself to be one of those whom God had preordained for damnation. I feared she might poison the congregation with her sins were she allowed to remain. Her sin was put before the congregation and she was cast out from them; she and her family who left out of shame for her transgressions. I appointed myself God over her, worthy to judge her soul. Only later did I realize my anger was at myself and not her, that it was created by my own pride - I felt I had failed as a minister because she, a child I had guided with my teachings and admonitions from her earliest memories, had been seduced so easily by the tempter. In truth, I had failed as a minister when, instead of assuring her of God's forgiveness for those truly penitent, I instead exposed her in her sin to the condemnation of her fellow man. Was I no better than the Pharisee who threw the adulterous woman before the crowd to be stoned? I was worse, in fact, for I had heard the words of Christ and still I cast the first stone - thus emboldening those around me to cast their own stones as well. I repented of my sin and decided to seek her forgiveness, but when I sought her out I discovered her family had disowned her, that she was now living with a man to whom she was not married - a lecherous, violent, drunkard of a man (if he might be called a man). It was my fault she had been forced so low - had I not allowed my own pride to supersede God's mercy perhaps she would not have come to such disgrace. I sacrificed her immortal soul on the altar of my pride. That Sunday I resigned from my position as pastor for I had proven myself unworthy of the title. I was a broken man when Gen. Booth and his soldiers found me. He reminded me of the forgiveness, the infinite love my God had for me - through him I came to accept our Spiritual fate was not preordained before we had even been born (for what manner of loving God would condemn His creation to Hell before they had even drawn breath?) but that Heaven could be attained by all, even the worst reprobate - even a man such as myself who had led so many astray. It was Bertha who found the young woman, they had been friends in their youth, she had been living on the streets for only God knows how long. She would not accept our aide at first - she swore she would sooner die than accept charity from us, not that I could fault her in not wishing to take bread from the man who had condemned her only a handful of years before. I went to her privately, confessing my sin I begged her forgiveness. She possessed a kinder heart than my own for she deigned to bestow that gift on me. We were able to find her a position with the Allen family as a maid. That was the year I was to become a Captain with my daughter. It was a small ceremony, I suppose Bertha must have invited her, but when I saw her face amongst the crowd I realized I could not accept the honor. I could not again risk my pride ruling my heart instead of my God. So I choose to be a servant of those who have humbler hearts than mine. It is not a choice I regret."

"What became of the woman?"

"She slowly began attending services. I would like to believe she made her peace with God before she passed; but I shall never know. It is my fault," he choked. "It's all my fault. If not for me she might have lived. He would not have taken her from us." George pressed his face into his hands, sobs wrenching from his convulsed body.

"Mirabelle?" I asked, already certain of the answer. He nodded. I placed my hand gently on his shoulder, "There is no assurance she would have been spared." I felt his hand grip mine as if grasping at a lifeline,

"I sincerely wish I could believe such words; but in my heart I know these things would not have befallen her had I led her back into the flock when she went astray rather than casting her out to the tender mercies of the wolves." He tightened his grip, painfully crushing my fingers. "May God forgive me."

"I am certain He does."

"I find that assurance much easier to dispense than to accept."

"That does not, in any way, negate its veracity."

"Thank you, Mina." his grip loosened. "Even if I cannot yet, and perhaps never will, truly feel it; the words are a comfort to me."

* * *

The morning came far too soon and with it the knocking of Roger at my door. "Miss Moore, are you awake? It's half past nine." I turned sleepily to my clock, groggily attempting to interpret the meaning of those long black hands in relation to the numbers, the meaning of Rogers words still fighting to penetrate the fog of my mind... Oh Hell's Bells! Have past nine! Clarity struck like me like a bolt. "Miss Moore?"

"I'm awake!" I cried, vigorously throwing off my covers. "Just a minute!" I rushed about my room hastily pulling on my clothing. I stuck my foot in my boot "Hell's Bells!" I exclaimed, quickly withdrawing it from that rough, sand filled home. "Slippers... where are my slippers? No. I will need my dress shoes. Or can I wear my slippers? When did it last rain?" I mumbled to myself. Quickly, I peered out the open window into the bright summer sky. The morning air still retained a hint of its crisp bite, but all moisture had gone with the rising sun. "Slippers." I concluded, settling back into the room in relief. Suitably dressed I threw open the door and was startled to find Roger leaning, one arm against the wall, waiting; a bemused smile playing about his lips. I shot him a severe glare and pushed my way past him.

"How did you sleep?" he asked mockingly.

"You could have woken me sooner."

"I didn't know how late you were out."

"Not so very late."

"As I recall it was well after dark when you arrived."

"Mrs. Shaw was late in returning from town."

"So how did your interview with your young shop boy fare?" I chose to ignore his taunt, answering:

"He appeared to be wholly ignorant of the attempted elopement. There can be no doubt Chapman authored the entire event for the purpose of providing a plausible cause for Kate's absence." I answered as we stepped onto the street, Roger hailed a cab.

"Did he have anything to say regarding Bess's disappearance?" He asked as soon as he had shut the door of the coach.

"Nothing we were not already aware of."

"Do you think we might glean more information from the young woman?"

"If Mr. Shaw is to be believed, she is not speaking to anyone on the subject."

"So then, this is merely an exercise in futility?"

"It very well may be, but we do have to at least make the attempt."

* * *

"How does Miss Allen fare, Doctor?" Roger inquired of the well dressed mustachioed man as he exited the room we knew to belong to Bess.

"Her fever hasn't returned. Though she is, quite understandably, in low spirits." the elder man answered. "I believe she'll be well enough to go home in another day or two."

"Is she able to receive visitors?"

"She is physically healthy enough, if that is your meaning. It might do her some good to meet her rescuers."

We entered the room to find the young woman lying on her side staring, despondent, at the blank wall, her red hair loose, forming a mane around her face. Her mother sat beside her; she appeared to have aged a decade since I had last seen her. On seeing us she immediately rose, taking both my hands in hers, "Oh Miss Moore, I can never thank you enough for finding my daughter! And you as well, Lord Norbert - I can never repay you for all you have done for my family!" She turned, "Bess, these are the people who rescued you." the girl continued to stare at the wall. "Don't be rude, Bess." the young mother pleaded to no avail, for her daughter made no movement.

"Miss Allen?" I attempted. The girl responded only by tugging her sheet tighter over her shoulder. I turned to her mother, "If you might give us a minute?" The woman regarded the request nervously. "Just a moment, you can wait in the doorway with Lord Norbert if you like." Roger extended a hand to guide Mrs. Allen toward the door, had she not been in such a prolonged state of nerves I am certain she would have strenuously objected, but as it was she meekly allowed herself to be herded from the room into the hallway. I bent in close so my lips were mere inches from her ear,

"Miss Allen, Miss Thompson's death was not your fault. I know you found her on the beach - I'm guessing you realized something had happened to her when you saw Mr. Shaw at the Grocery and so you snuck out to search for her that night. Am I correct?" There was still no response from the bed. "You searched the places you were accustomed to meeting and finally found yourself at the dock. That is when you saw her lying in the sand, you ran to help her but found she had passed - I cannot imagine your shock at such a terrible discovery. I suppose you likely don't even recall walking to Lancing where we found you." No response met me, then suddenly a loud sniffle broke the silence. I peered over to see tears running down across Bess's face. "Bess, I need to know, did you see anyone else at the Grocery while you were there?"

"I'm sorry." she murmured hoarsely. "I don't remember."

"I understand, is there anything you remember, any detail? Close your eyes and concentrate for a moment." The young woman did as she was told,

"I remember Russell was at the front desk... he was waiting on a man..."

"Do you recall anything regarding the man's appearance?" I probed. Her eyelids crinkled in concentration,

"...He was tall."

"Anything else?"

"He had brown hair."

"Do you remember what he was wearing?"

"A leisure suit and a bowler hat."

"Was there anyone else in the store?"

"No. Maybe a few ladies. I'm not certain."

"Did you see anyone while you were leaving the store?"

"No... yes... I'm sorry, I wasn't looking and there were so many people about!" she cried desperately.

"You did very well, Bess." I gently assured the pitiful girl. "I will tell the Constable what you have told me - it may help him solve the crime."

"Do you think, if I had told mother that I didn't believe Kate had eloped, she might still be alive? That they might have found her?" she wept. I regarded Bess sadly,

"I'm sorry, Bess. There was nothing you could have done differently to save her."

"What'll I do without her?" she sobbed.

"I wish I could tell you. May I call your mother back in?" The girl nodded, strands of red hair sticking to her tear streaked face. "Mrs. Allen, you may return." I called.

"Oh Bess!" the woman exclaimed, she rushed to her child's side, embracing her tightly. "Did Miss Moore upset you?"

"No." Bess whimpered. "It's only, Kate's gone."

"I know, darling, I know. I'm so very sorry." she replied rocking her daughter. I turned to leave,

"No, please stay, Miss Moore." Bess pleaded. "Just for a little while longer. At least until father comes back."

"Would you, please?" Mrs. Allen added. "It won't put you and your companion out, will it?"

"Not at all. I would be glad to." I answered, setting myself in the chair on the other side of the bed.

I remained for some time while Roger stood guard outside the room - a position I was sure was intolerable to him but that he executed without complaint. Gradually, Bess's spirits rose enough that by the time Mr. Allen knocked at the door she was engaged in conversation with us regarding the local shops. "Oh Bess! You're speaking again! Praise the good Lord in Heaven!" he father cried, veritably scooping the girl out of bed in his powerful embrace.

"Father!" Bess wrapped her arms tightly about the stout man's neck, suddenly seeming a child of six years where the young woman had only moments before been.

"I ran into Rev. Smith and Mr. Kitt while I was out, they asked if they might stop by and give their regards - they are waiting in the hall." Mr. Allen said, finally releasing his daughter.

"I would like to see Rev. Smith. I don't believe I know Mr. Kitt, but if he comes with Rev. Smith I suppose it would be acceptable." Bess consented. Mr. Allen craned round the door frame,

"Rev. Smith, Mr. Kitt, she will see you." George was first in the room,

"Bess, I am glad to see you so well." he said, taking hold of her hands in his. "I have not ceased in praying for your recovery."

"Thank you, Reverend." Mr. Kitt stood timidly in the door, somewhat obscured by the long afternoon shadows, watching the scene.

"Oh, this is my associate, Mr. Kitt." George motioned toward the large man who had still not entered the room. "Mr. Kitt, do come in." Mr. Kitt manged to walk a few paces into the room, his gaze transfixed by the girl.

"It is nice to meet you, Mr. Kitt." Bess replied, shyly. Mr. Kitt nodded in reply.

"And this is her mother, Mrs. Lucille Allen. The Allen's were parishioners at my church."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Kitt." Mrs. Allen said tersely. She stared at the man, her features suddenly fixed. Mr. Kitt started almost imperceptibly; he tilted his head slightly to the right,

"Good afternoon, Mrs... Allen was it?"

"Yes." she answered, her shoulders were drawn back, tense.

"Pleasure to meet you and your daughter. She's what? Sixteen?"

"Nineteen." the girl supplied.

"Nineteen," he regarded Bess fondly. "Wouldn't know it by lookin' at you." The girl puffed her lower lip in a pout, which only had the effect of making her appear younger. There was something between the pair I could not quite name, some sort of familiarity made all the more unusual by their supposed lack of that very thing. It stirred like a gnat upon my brain always leaping and landing but never still for long enough to be caught.

"Miss Moore?" Roger popped his head around the door frame.

"Oh yes! Lord Norbert! I'm sorry, I really must be going. Perhaps we may visit again when you are home." this last comment I directed to Bess.

"I would like that." she replied. It was strange to think this girl was only three years my junior, yet she seemed so much younger. Or perhaps I, too, had seemed that young at her age.

"Take care." I called, leaving the room to join Roger who, by now, was probably quite impatient with me.

* * *

"It is good to be home." I proclaimed as we exited the coach after a pointedly silent journey.

"For how good you say it is you certainly delayed returning as long as possible."

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder."

"Then I wish you had chosen to detest the place."

"Her information did prove helpful."

"Information you obtained in the first few minutes." he groused as I opened the door.

"Oh! There's been a letter." I said, noticing a small white envelope on the floor. I turned it over, reading the address. "It's from Edgar." how very strange, indeed. I quickly tore open the envelope and liberated its contents, scanning them quickly. I read them a second time to be certain of the content. I pressed the letter to my chest, "Roger, it's Millie! She's taken dreadfully ill!" I exclaimed. I began to pace the room frantically, my mind racing, "I must pack. You'll have to give my regrets to George."

"Your regrets? What for?" for once Roger appeared quite bewildered, though why I could not understand for the situation was clear.

"I must go, immediately!"

"Go! Go where?"

"Home! To Greenmoor Commons! Oh, leave them! I have plenty of things at home."

"You can't just leave! We're in the middle of a case!"

"I'm sorry, Roger, you'll just have to go it alone for now."

"Mina!"

"I'm sorry, Roger, but I have to go. I'll return as soon as I am able." I said, rushing out the door.  
"Mina! Wait!" I heard Roger call as I trotted down the road toward the railroad station, but I did not turn.


End file.
